Monday morning rolled around and Miranda met Alan in the lobby to catch a ride to work. She wore a long trench coat to hide her outfit and her hair was pulled up in a ponytail with fringes of hair around her face.
He held the car door open for her then he got in. She smiled at him cheerily.
"I like the ponytail," he said. "Nice touch." He tried to get a glimpse of what she wore under her coat but all he could see was her legs and her black Mary Jane heels.
"You seem like you're in a good mood this morning," he said.
"I'm in a very good mood."
She giggled. "Oh! I need to get into my old apartment so I can get my things packed up. What do I need to do? I'm sure the police still have it roped off?"
"They do. Miranda, even though this case is open and shut, it's not likely they will release the crime scene until the end of the week. The very earliest you can think about packing and moving will be this weekend. And I'm not sure, but don't you think you need to actually secure the house first?"
"I'm going to get it inspected today. Vera says the sellers are very motivated, so I can move quickly on the purchase."
"Has she given you a good deal?"
"A fabulous deal. Thank you so much."
"I may get to finalize as early as the end of next week. Can you believe it? I'm so excited."
"You know, my curiosity is aroused as to what you could have on under that trench coat of yours."
"Hm. I wonder. I also wonder if you've heard anything I've said."
He laughed. "Every word. You aren't going to tell me are you?"
"No, I'm not. Once we're at work you will have plenty of opportunities to see what I'm wearing. Did you have a good weekend?"
"I did. Saw Denny for dinner on Saturday, got a lot of work done yesterday for a new case."
When they got to work she went immediately to fix their coffee.
Alan stood at the corner of her desk and said, "Don't you want to take off your coat?"
"Nope," she said, bouncing away. "I'd like to have my coffee. I'll bring yours."
She soon came back with a slip of paper and his cup of coffee.
"You only had the one message—a Ms. Reed." She placed the paper in front of him.
He watched her walk away, a pained, tense look on his face. He just didn't understand why she would not take off her coat. He wanted to know what was underneath. He sat back in his chair, newspaper open in his lap, two finger taps on the arm rest. She placed a file on his desk and was saying something to which he wasn't paying attention. He simply nodded.
"Alan, you okay?"
He snapped out of his daze. "Yes, fine. Thank you, Miranda."
On her way out she paused in the door way. She kept her back to him as she untied the belt on the trench coat. She slowly unbuttoned it then slid it from her shoulders, revealing a snug white sweater. His finger stopped tapping and he perked up with curiosity. She slid the coat to her waist, pulling out one arm then the other. She glanced at him over her shoulder then let the coat drop to reveal a short, pleated, school girl skirt.
His mouth dropped open. He immediately snapped it shut.
"So what do you think?"
"Horseradish," he said weakly.
"What?"
"Cabbage," he stated firmly, clearing his throat.
"Alan, you're not making any sense."
His mind raced. Dammit! The word salad was back. He took a deep breath and thought very hard about what he wanted to say. Very slowly he annunciated each word, "Please…bring…me…the…Graham…file."
"Are you okay?"
He nodded, anxiously.
She cocked her head at him and went to retrieve the file.
He jumped up from his chair and trotted to the door, peering around it to watch her green plaid skirt flounce away.
"Dear God," he whispered to himself, shutting his eyes. He raced to Denny's office and closed the door behind him; he seemed panic-stricken.
Denny was sitting at his desk, fingertips pressed together, staring out his office window. He looked up at Alan.
"What's wrong?"
"She may be trying to kill me."
"Who? You want a gun for protection? I have several."
"Miranda." He flopped down on Denny's couch a little breathless. "She's wearing this little green," he motioned wildly with his hands, "plaid school girl skirt thing, hair in one of those sexy ponytails… and a sweater." He spread his hands against his chest, and squeezed his eyes shut, "tight."
"Are you serious?" Denny said, dashing from behind his desk and sitting nearer to Alan. "Tell me more. Where is she?"
Alan said weakly, "And the Mary Jane heels." He shook his head. "Ugh! Denny, normally this wouldn't bother me—but she touched my leg this morning in the car—it was just the way she touched it all gentle and…it's just too much."
"Have you slept with her yet?"
"No!" Alan shook his head vigorously. "Except for the phone."
"You mean…phone sex?"
"Yes. I've told you this." Alan's face was tensed with confusion and irritation, "When is your next doctor's appointment?"
Denny puffed up. "Don't change the subject! Where is she? I want to see her too." He got up and opened his door peering up and down the hall for a glimpse of her. He started down the hall.
Alan shouted at him. "Denny! Denny!"
Denny reappeared in the doorway. "What do you want?"
"Would you get back in here! I'm having a moment here, Denny."
"Okay, go on," Denny said, returning to the couch, pouting.
"As far as any real physical contact goes, I haven't even kissed her yet."
Denny leaned forward in surprise. "That's your problem. You've got to man up."
Alan shook his head. "Denny this isn't helping. I don't want to have sex with her yet. Well, I do. I wanted to throw her on my desk the second I laid eyes on her and in my mind, my fantasies every day, several times a day, I…," he shook his head again, shaking off an unwanted thought. "I just…" he sighed in frustration.
"Well what are you waiting for on the sex thing? Why haven't you done it yet?"
"I can sense it's coming, and soon. I don't know how to explain it; I just wanted to savor the anticipation, the desire. But this, this skirt is too much, especially after what she said on our date this weekend."
"What did she say?" Denny said leaning in, eager for juicy news. "Did she kiss another girl while wearing the skirt?"
Alan stared at Denny as he considered the scenario. Then shook it out of his head. "No. She told me about this love affair she had in college with one of her professors."
"Was the professor a woman?"
"Good God, Denny."
"Okay, okay go on."
"Then she said they made love in his office on his leather couch and his desk; she added that she sometimes wore a school girl skirt—much like the one she has on now. She told me the affair was true, but the part about the skirt was not—obviously her little way of teasing me; it worked—but that image has stayed with me. And then when she touched me this morning on the leg, you know what that does to me…"
Denny nodded thoughtfully.
"And she had on this trench coat and refused to take it off, which excited my curiosity. When she did finally take it off, to reveal her outfit, she did it in a very seductive way, kind of like a striptease…."
"I just pitched a tent."
Alan scoffed, frustrated, "God, Denny. I try to lay out my feelings. I'm having a crisis…"
They spoke in unison.
"Well what do you expect me to do? You tell me this…"
"I expect you to be a friend and listen to me when I have a problem…"
"About this incredibly gorgeous woman in a school girl skirt…"
"I always listen to your…"
Miranda knocked on the door and opened it. Both men fell silent and tensed up. "I thought I'd find you here."
Alan took a second to compose himself before he could look at her.
Denny's mouth fell open. He pulled a card from his inner jacket pocket and approached her. "This is my business card. Has my home phone on it. You can call me there anytime, especially while you're in that skirt. Maybe tonight? I have little blue pills. I'll take the whole bottle if I have to." He smiled and nodded encouragingly.
She looked at the card then at Denny. While she was distracted with Denny, Alan ran his eyes up her legs; he felt lightheaded. He shielded his eyes with his hands.
She spoke to him, "Alan?"
He jerked his hand away and looked up quickly, smiling widely—too widely.
She continued. "I need you to sign these documents and you have a client waiting in your office. This is for you." She handed him a folder. He signed the documents and handed them back to her.
"Race car, Miranda," he said. He squeezed his eyes shut.
"Huh?"
"Orangutan velvet flows." He nodded.
She furrowed her brows. "Are you okay?"
He nodded, chuckling, "Applesauce."
"You're acting really weird today."
He tightened his lips and shook his head, a nervous, flinching smile on his face. She cocked an eyebrow, puzzled, then spun around, allowing the skirt to fly up slightly, and flounced away.
Alan rolled his eyes and released a half grunt, half sigh, deflating against the couch.
He peeped over the back of the couch to make sure she was out of earshot then he spun around in a half-panicked state. "You see what I mean!"
Denny stood frozen with his mouth and eyes gaped wide. He turned on Alan angrily. "I can't believe you haven't pounced on her. You're going to the doctor with me next time. You're not right."
Alan was talking at the same time. "And now the word salad is back! I can not work around that," he pointed forcefully at the door, "all day. I've got to go." He dashed out the door toward his office to meet with his client.
Shirley and Carl passed him in the hall. "Good morning, Alan," Shirley said.
"Dolphin shoes," Alan said, irritably, rushing by them.
They looked at each other questioningly.
Shirley said, "It's probably best not to ask."
"I've learned that," Carl said.
As Alan passed Miranda at the bookshelves, stretching to reach the topmost shelf, he rolled his eyes and put the folder up to block his view.
He entered his office in a highly agitated state.
"Good morning," he said. "My name is Alan Shore. How may I help you today?" He sat at his desk and leaned back in his chair. Gradually, he was able to compose himself.
"Good morning, Mr. Shore. My name is Clara Reed and I would like to seek your counsel."
"In regards to?"
Mrs. Reed sat down and unfolded her case.
While he was listening to Mrs. Reed, he noticed Miranda as she walked past his door on her way back to her desk. He stopped mid-sentence. Then he said, "If blue trees march across wasteland pucker."
Mrs. Reed frowned in confusion. "Mr. Shore? Are you okay."
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook it off. "Tiny orange," he said, holding up one finger.
He rose from his desk and approached Miranda's. Without a word he stormed over to the coat rack in the corner behind her and placed the coat over her body, turning his head away from her so he couldn't see her. He spoke very slowly, choosing each word carefully, "Please put this on and don't take it off." He went back into his office and shut the door.
Miranda was struck by his odd behavior and muttered, "Ooo-kay." She put the coat on.
Alan did his best to avoid Miranda for the rest of the day. He felt he had to in order to control himself because every time he tried to speak to her the word salad surfaced; he was embarrassed by his inability to control it.
That evening, before she went home, he approached her desk and said slowly, "Miranda, would you care to join me for dinner?"
"Okay. Should I go back to the hotel and change?"
"That's not necessary."
"Well, am I going to be able to take my coat off at dinner?"
He nodded. "Yes. Of course. I would like to go as soon as I finish what I'm doing though—in about an hour?"
When he at last emerged, she gathered her things and they walked quietly down the hall together. She sensed tension between them, something she hadn't sensed before.
When they got onto the elevator she said, "Is everything okay, Alan?"
"Yes. Have you thought about where you would like to eat?" He was a little abrupt and wouldn't look at her.
"I don't care."
"How about a steakhouse?"
"I said I don't care."
Her sharp tone of voice forced him to look at her; she didn't take her eyes off the descending numbers.
The ride to the restaurant was quiet. Once there, he helped her out of her coat. He felt light-headed again. He held her chair for her with his eyes shut. He grazed her shoulder with his fingertips.
They ordered their wine and placed their order.
Alan said, "You're angry with me."
"I'm not sure—a little maybe. You've been acting very strange today."
"I know. I apologize. I invited you to dinner to explain."
"First, I would like to know what was wrong with my outfit that I had to wear my coat over it all day? It got hot in this coat, you know."
"There wasn't anything wrong with the outfit, necessarily, just my reaction to it."
"Care to elaborate?"
"It's just that the other day when you told me about the affair with your professor, even though you said the skirt part wasn't true, it just sort of stayed with me. And that image has sort of …lingered."
"And that's what got you so worked up?"
"Well, in part."
"Then this morning when you touched my thigh…"
"I did? I don't remember that."
"You did it in passing and I'm sure you didn't mean anything by it, but…" he paused and collected his thoughts. "If your intention was to get my attention, you did so in a big way."
"Well, I will admit that the skirt was intentional, but not perhaps for the reasons you suspect."
"What do you mean?"
"I wore the skirt because I am determined to get that 10 rating."
He laughed. "This is about the rating?"
"I'm afraid so," she said, her voice musical with laughter. "That's all I was after. Well, maybe not all. I will admit that I wanted to get your attention, too. I thought it would be fun to tease you, flirt with you. I mean, we've been doing that all along and it never affected you like this."
"This was different though."
She laughed her throaty laugh, "I was just playing around—keeps the day interesting."
"Indeed it does," he said sipping his wine.
"So," she said, swallowing her food, "Do I get my 10 or not?"
"Oh, you get the 10 and then some; in fact, for that ensemble, you get a 20." He leaned on the table and held her hand. "I would like to establish, just for the record, that there are certain private circumstances I can imagine when that skirt would be very useful. I certainly hope to put it to such use someday. However, as much as I hate to say this, I think you should refrain from wearing it to work—it's just too…" he set his jaw, "distracting."
She shrugged. "Okay. I got what I wanted."
He laughed. "I can't believe this was about the rating."
She laughed. "I wanted the 10."
"You're formidable."
She winked at him. "You have no idea what you're up against."
"Indeed."
They ate in silence for a few moments.
"So tell me something, Alan."
"Yes?"
"What was with all the gibberish? Every time you talked to me you would say these crazy things that made no sense."
He nodded and chuckled. He finished chewing and sipped his wine. He looked down at the tablecloth. "Sometimes, in a high state of anxiety or agitation, I become afflicted with what's known as word salad."
"Word salad?"
"Yes, my mind sort of short circuits and words I expect to come out of mouth come out all wrong—other words come out instead."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Several years, but it's been a while since my last episode."
"And I made you revert to this word salad?"
"I think so, in part; it was an amalgamation of things: the skirt, the story you shared, our phone conversations, the touch this morning…you—all combined with other visceral memories, thoughts, and…" he shook his head. "I lost my grip." He finally looked at her, evenly.
She leaned forward, touched the lip of her wine glass and lowered her voice seductively, and said, "And I wonder what we can do about that? Is there a cure for this word salad?"
"I don't think so."
"Well, it seems to me, if it's brought on by anxiety, then alleviation of the anxiety would be central to extinguishing the word salad."
"It would stand to reason." He smiled crookedly.
"And the touch on the thigh? What makes that so arousing?"
He dithered. "Every school year, my mother would measure me for trousers. She was not an affectionate woman. But when she measured me was one of the rare times when she touched me and it very…gentle…loving…in its way. And when you touched me, it called up certain…feelings and associations."
"I see. So I take it that gentle touches and affection aren't a regular part of your life."
He half scoffed, half chuckled. "Something like that." He looked at her flatly. He had thrown up the wall again.
She sipped her wine, studying him over the rim of her glass.
"I don't rattle very easily Miranda; but I have to say, when you look at me like that, I find it most unnerving."
"Why does it unnerve you?"
"Because you're attempting to analyze me. I feel it. I presume you're seeking to fix me. I wish you wouldn't do that."
"What makes you think I'm trying to fix you?"
"Isn't that what most women do?"
"Oh, Alan. I'm surprised you haven't figured it out by now."
"What's that?"
"I'm not most women."
"Indeed."
"Honey, I don't want to fix you. I like your messy mysterious corners, your dark secrets, all your broken bits. Were it not for all that, I wouldn't find you near as fascinating." His gaze softened, appeared almost vulnerable.
After dinner he drove her back to the hotel. As they past through the lobby, Alan said, "They have a lovely piano bar here, if you would like to stop by and have a nightcap."
"Sure."
They ordered their drinks and retired to the end of the bar.
"No whiskey sour tonight?" he said.
"No, I made a fool of myself the last time I did that, remember?"
He chuckled. "You did not make a fool of yourself. You felt good; it was a happy moment."
"However, an Irish coffee would be good, because I would like to be up a little longer tonight. I'm not quite ready to go to sleep."
"Really? And what do you have planned that you need to stay awake for?"
She smiled mysteriously then added, "I like to keep a running list of things that need to be done, that way I've always got something to do."
"That's not really an answer."
"Sure it is. The second part to that answer is that I've had a good day, I'm not ready for it to end."
"That still is not a real answer to my question."
"But it's the only answer I'm giving."
"Oh!" He laughed. "Okay. It's a simple question. I'm trying to get to know you, your interests—not pry."
Her mysterious smile again. She looked at the mirror behind the bar, the glasses and liquor bottles shining in the lights. A soft, lilting melody drifted from the piano.
He gazed warmly at her face, her hair, her neck. He reached over and pushed the tendrils of hair out of her face.
She sighed. "You know, in some ways I enjoy living at the hotel, but I'll be really glad to have a place of my own again."
He smiled.
"How long have you lived here?"
"A few years." He sipped his scotch.
"Why?"
"There's a certain level of comfort in knowing that I can check out at any time."
"I can understand that. I've checked out a lot in my life, too."
"So then why not stay in the hotel," he said, leaning a little closer.
"Because I'm your assistant; not an attorney. While I make good money for what I do, I cannot afford to always live in a hotel. I've got plans for my money."
"Like what?"
"Well, first: completing my education; second: travel; third: retirement."
"All good things. Where do you want to retire?"
"I don't know. But after listening to your retirement plans in Bali that's sounding better and better. Maybe Greece."
He chuckled.
"Seriously, I don't know. I haven't given it a whole lot of thought because it's so far away. Sometimes, I think I would like to retire to a tropical island, but more realistically I don't think I could sit around doing nothing, day after day. I would have to be busy. I think as long as I'm healthy, I would want to do some sort of mission work. I want to leave a legacy. I can't think of a better legacy than providing clean drinking water to a community or building houses for the homeless. I believe the right thing for the "haves" to do is to assist the "have-nots"—without enabling or being a crutch, but to just offer a helping hand, instill hope. And frankly, sometimes hope has to come in a very tangible form food, water, and shelter. Sometimes it's just not enough to throw money and incensed emotions at a problem. Sometimes, time and energy are necessary too."
His face lit up. "You seem very passionate about this."
"Maybe passionate is a strong word, I'm not sure. I think the passionate ones are the ones who live it day in and day out. I don't live it. I like my creature comforts, to a degree. I like pursuing my own dreams and goals. I'm still quite selfish. Maybe enthusiastic is a better word than passionate to describe me—at least in this. As much as I believe we should help, I also want balance in my life."
"That's very Aristotelian. I'm more of a stoic myself."
"Whatever." She rolled her eyes. "I think you would like to be, but I think it's largely an affectation."
"You presume to know me so well?"
She shrugged. "I know what I know." She leaned closer to him, her knee touching his, "And before me I see a man who is capable of immense passion. I've seen it in action. I work with you, remember? And you can't have that depth of passion and be stoic. It isn't possible. I think rather, you would prefer to be stoic because experiencing the emotions is too chaotic and sometimes painful."
"I find you much less appealing when you psychoanalyze me, Miranda."
She shrugged and smiled.
He gazed at her evenly. "I'm beginning to see that looking into you is like looking out across the sky—there's just seems to be no end. You extend much further than I can see."
She laughed. "How romantic." She sipped her drink, "But rest assured; there is an end."
His eyes smiled, a hint of sadness in them, he said, "Isn't there always?"
They fell silent for a moment and their eyes locked.
"Excuse me for a moment." She slid off the barstool.
He watched her cross the room to speak to the piano player. She slipped a couple dollars into his tip glass. He began playing, "Someone to Watch over Me."
She came back to Alan and held out her hand. "Dance?"
"Certainly."
He took her in his arms, their faces lingering close together.
He pressed his cheek against her head, his lips close to her ear. "This is the first song we danced to at the Quarter Club."
"You're right. I have an idea," she said, "How about we give our words and our minds a rest and just enjoy the moment and the music?"
He smiled warmly into her eyes. "Agreed."
They pressed closely together, his face against her hair, taking in her scent, her cheek resting against his shoulder.
When the song ended they pulled apart slowly, almost reluctantly.
"As much as I hate to, Alan, I should probably call it a night, albeit a rather early one."
"I understand. I have to meet Denny anyway. I'll walk you to your room."
They reached her room.
"You make me feel like I'm in college again," he said, looking at her hair, running his hand over her ponytail.
She giggled. "It's important to stay young at heart as much as possible."
"Indeed. You know lately I have had this odd desire to reset the clock, go back in time to a state of sexual rebirth…"
"Like a born again virgin."
He laughed aloud. "Exactly. To that time before my innocence was lost so that I can explore and experience once again all these sensations…"
"Only to experience once again the ultimate sensation of losing your innocence."
"Something like that. I've given in so long to my basest desires that innocence seems like the fragile glimmer of a distant star."
"I'm game if you are."
"You mean…?"
"It could be fun. Make out sessions on the couch, in the back seats of cars or movie theatres. I'll play hard to get, tell you 'no' and slap your hand away."
"How long do you think we'd last?" he chuckled.
"Not sure. Do we want to find out?"
"I don't know if I could stand it."
"I'm sure you're much stronger than you give yourself credit for."
"You have to promise to not wear this skirt though."
She laughed. "That's part of the challenge, isn't it?"
"Miranda."
That mysterious smile crossed her lips again. "You know what I like about you?"
"I can't imagine."
"I like this part right here," she said running her fingers along his neck. "There's just something enticing about it. I mean you have on this suit, your armor," she said, patting his arms and shoulders, "and then suddenly…Ah!" she gasped. "Your skin," she lightly ran her fingers along his neck.
"This is not helping."
"It's so vulnerable, so exposed, sensitive to the lightest touch…or kiss." She leaned close enough to his neck so he could feel her breath before she placed a light kiss there.
She pulled away.
He smiled. "You are so…wicked," he whispered.
Her throaty laugh floated around him.
They leaned closer together, their breath on each other's faces, their lips hovering near each other for a moment, relishing, cherishing the anticipation of the impending kiss. They both tensed with nervousness and excitement. He touched her clavicle then ran his hand up her neck to her hair, releasing the ponytail. He watched it fall then ran his hands through her lush dark hair. He pressed his lips to hers ever so gently; slowly they kissed, savoring the taste and feel of one another.
When they pulled apart he said, "You don't know how long I've wanted to do that."
"Yes I do."
They kissed again, tenderly at first, then she ran her hands under his suit jacket to feel his back and down and around, grazing his leg, which intensified Alan's passion. He pressed her against the door, kissing her more forcefully as he ran his hands under her skirt to feel her thighs.
They pulled apart, both breathing a little harder, bodies tense with desire for one another.
"What about your quest for innocence?" she said, teasing him.
"I think there's a reason I got rid of it; it's really no fun at all."
She giggled.
"Let me in, Miranda. Let me corrupt you completely."
"What makes you think I'm not already?"
"There's a shred of innocence left, I can smell it on you." He kissed and nibbled her neck. His breath in her ear sent thrills all over her.
"Seems I've got a wolf at my door," she said through gasping breath.
"If you don't let me in, I may take you right here," he said, his hands returning under her skirt, pulling her hips into his, still kissing her neck.
"I think I can be strong enough for the both of us here." She released herself from his grip and opened her door and slipped inside peering out at him from a crack in the door.
"So you're not letting me in tonight?"
"Alan for the both of us: not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin."
"I'm already beginning to regret I said anything about a renewal of innocence."
"Good night," she whispered.
"This is going to kill me," Alan said to Denny as he leaned back and blew smoke into the air.
"Then why do it? I don't understand why you would want to deny yourself one of the greatest pleasures a man can experience—being in the middle of a thigh sandwich."
Alan snorted. "I don't know, Denny. Ever since I met her I have felt this longing to return to some sort of semi-virginal state. I can't explain it."
"So you can lose your virginity to her."
"Sort of, I guess. Yet I'm simultaneously conflicted with this desire to…cherish her and devour her. Like the big bad wolf."
"The big bad wolf?"
"Yea," he chuckled. "She actually called me a wolf tonight. I'm certain she meant it in jest, but I wonder. She may be accurate in her estimation."
"There's definitely something fritzing out upstairs. You need to go to the doctor with me next time I go. Get an MRI, PET scan thingy—this whole word salad business, thinking you're a virgin wolf."
"I'm not saying that I…never mind."
"What?"
"Never mind, Denny."
"All I'm saying is I would have already slept with her, married her and probably be in the middle of a divorce with her by now."
Alan laughed, nodding. "You probably would. I'm learning though, Denny, there's something to be said for moving slowly."
"Yea, the word is boring."
Alan chuckled. "Indeed. After I told her about wanting to return to this innocent state…"
"Judas Priest!" Denny leaned over the chair arm. "You said that to her!" He sat back, looking up at the sky through his cigar smoke. "You're never getting laid now."
"Probably not. She held me to it, this time at least. I may wear her down yet though."
"You can't tell women that sort of thing they take you seriously—think it's romantic."
"Well, I was serious at the time. Had we stopped at the first kiss I would have been fine. But when we kissed again, she touched my leg…"
"Uh-oh."
"It was unintentional, but it sent me completely over the edge and I was prepared to throw my desire for renewal of innocence to the wind. If she had let me into her room my virginal renewal would have lasted all of about five minutes."
"Longer than me—unless I take my little blue pill."
Alan chuckled, then grew pensive. "What does that say about me, about us, Denny—that we can not control our sexual impulses and appetites? Does that somehow make us more primal than other men, more animalistic, weaker?"
"Makes us passionate. We are men of passion, Alan—passion for the law, passion for justice, passion for women."
"Miranda said something interesting the other day when we were at the museum. She said she considered herself a very passionate person, and while on the one hand she enjoys the high she gets from it, it's also a sometimes a curse because it hinders any true intimacy with a person because she jumps in too fast or the passion fizzles too fast. Do you think that's what we do, Denny? Do you think we excuse a fear of intimacy by calling it passion?"
"I'm not afraid of being intimate. I've been married six times."
"Precisely."
"What are saying, Alan?"
"What I'm saying is if we truly sought intimacy with a woman, Denny we would be capable of long term relationships."
Denny nodded pensively. He took a sip of scotch, "But not all women are worth long term. You know that. Some of them are just out for a good time, too."
Alan looked out across the skyline. "I suppose."
Denny stared into his drink. "So you think this, Melanie…"
"Miranda."
"Right, is worth the long term?"
"She is—definitely."
"But do you want long term with her?"
Alan looked at him and smiled, "And that is the big question isn't it, Denny?"
"So what's the answer?"
"I don't know."