“I have an idea that is is what enduring love really means, Your memories of a girl at seventeen become as real and vivid as the middle-aged woman sitting in front of you. It is a happy sort of double vision, this seeing and remembering. To be seen this way is to be known.”

“You really have no idea, do you?”“No idea about what?” “How thoroughly you own me, Nightie Girl,” he said, leaning in to whisper this part in my ear. “And I know I love you enough to want you to have your happy ending.”

“Oh, if I had been loved at the age of seventeen, what an idiot I would be today. Happiness is like smallpox: if you catch it too soon, it can completely ruin your constitution.”

“My dear fellow, the truth isn’t quite the sort of thing one tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl. What extraordinary ideas you have about the way to behave to a woman!”

“What do you know about love? Are your feelings more holy than mine? Am I exempt from the knowledge of love until I become “of age?” Do I automatically become human enough when I start loving you and seeing things your way?”

“And how old are you, Miss Beckett?” “Seventeen.” “What!” There is no way she’s seventeen. I inspect her face, studying it intently, but don’t know what it is I hope to find. Laugh lines maybe? She watches my face. “Is my age a problem for you?”“Hell, yeah, seventeen is a problem.” I throw my napkin on the table. All of this has been a waste. “Forget it all. This whole thing is off.” “I don’t act seventeen. I’m very mature for my age.”“No way. You’re not even old enough to be drinking that wine.” I lean in and whisper so no one will overhear. “I’m almost twice your age.” “I don’t mind. I have daddy issues.” She breaks into a huge grin and I hear a girlish giggle. That’s when I realize she’s fucking with me and has the ability to lie with a straight face. I’ll have to remember that for future reference. I’m not amused. “I see I have a comedienne on my hands.”