“A bum slumped in a corner seat called out, "Give the girl a dance already, ya bum!”

“I already know the words. I just need to learn the beat. This tone-deaf white girl will try to make music out of recovery.”

“What's a slut?" I ask him."A girl who puts out too easily.""Puts out what?" I imagine Greer putting out dinner and don't understand what Iwan wouldn't like about that."Puts out, you know..." His face, already beet red from our run, turns a darker scarlet. "Sex."I wonder where Greer puts the sex out.”

“You think fairy tales are only for girls? Here’s a hint—ask yourself who wrote them. I assure you, it wasn’t just the women. It’s the great male fantasy—all it takes is one dance to know that she’s the one. All it takes is the sound of her song from the tower, or a look at her sleeping face. And right away you know—this is the girl in your head, sleeping or dancing or singing in front of you. Yes, girls want their princes, but boys want their princesses just as much. And they don’t want a very long courtship. They want to know immediately.”

“A bell rings and Pavlov's dog has a fucking seizure on the dance floor.”

“I mean, like most guys, you carry around this girl in your head, who is exactly who you want her to be. The person you think you will love the most. And every girl you are with gets measured against this girl in your head.”

“But isn’t this a dance? Isn’t all of this a dance? Isn’t that what we do with words? Isn’t that what we do when we talk, when we spar, when we make plans or leave it to chance? Some of it’s choreographed. Some of the steps have been done for ages. And the rest—the rest is spontaneous. The rest has to be decided on the floor, in the moment, before the music ends.”