Lightfoot, nothing special.

“What’s his name? Anyway, what’s he like – this dude that you’re having a relationship with as you put it?”
“His name’s Thierry. What’s wrong with putting it like that?”
“You don’t have to tell me about him. It’s none of my business, anyway.”
“No, I don’t mind telling you about him. He’s, um, he’s really, direct and, uh, emotional, and sincere – everything. I mean, we’ve got this real connection between us. We never lie to each other.”
“What? Never?”
“No. Never.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not trying to embarrass you.”
“I’m not embarrassed.”
“What are you going to do, then?”
“For a living.”
“Write novels.”
“Does it pay well?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t actually sold any yet.”
“Oh. How are you going to provide for your family then?”
“What family?”
“Oh, the one you’ll have one day.”
“Bloody hell. Give me time.”
“Well, because I’m, I’m still, you know, still having relationships.”
“What, more than one?”
“Well, not simultaneously, no.”
“Anyway, marriage is a relationship.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, you said you were going to have relationships and then get married as if they were two different things.”
“No, I didn’t say I was going to get married.”
“Well, no, I suppose you didn’t technically, no.”
“Too bloody right, I didn’t. I’ll never get married.”
“Oh, Dewey, I think you will.”
“Why? You’re not original enough not to.”


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