“A little weird? That was freakin' Bizarroville."He pauses and looks back at me. "Are you speaking English?”

“Bird, hesitating, recalled a line from the English textbook he was reading with his students; a young American was speaking angrily: Are you kidding me? Are you looking for a fight?”

“Just so you know, I speak English. You don’t have to macho-speak with shit like ‘you with me’ after you macho-speak with a bunch of bossing me around. I get you. I’m with you. Or if I’m not, I’ll tell you.”“Noted,” he muttered but sounded like he was smiling. I made the diplomatic decision not to look.”

“Is it crazy right now to say I love you?” She didn’t even pause. “Given that I just stabbed you? Seems a little weird, yeah.”

“And Philippe won't speak English. She's sure he can - he's got that European je ne sais quoi that usually means "Oh, I speak six languages. And a little Japanese.”

“But I don't ask him anything, because he's driving with that weird fake-happy look on his face, as if he's about to chop me up into little pieces and feed me to a tiger.”