A snippet of light conversation from last night, after at least one too many glasses of wine:
"I don't want to talk about tennis," he said.
"Then what do you want to talk about? Do you...read?"
"No, not much. I'm a simple guy. But, we could make out for, like, forty-five minutes."
"What, what, what what, what?"
(Why did I sound like Jennifer Anniston just then, I thought, in that almost unwatchable film, The Break-Up? Mortified, face gone scarlet.)
"What?"
"I just wanted to stop that big intelligence of yours..."
C'mon, Eraser.
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