Epilogue
"Have you ever thought of learning to fly, Jack?"
They were sharing a whisky by the fireside, sitting at opposite ends of her couch, her toes tucked under her, his head resting on his hand.
He gave her a sideways glance. "Not really. Have you ever thought of learning to ride a motorcycle?"
"You could teach me. And I could teach you to fly. If you wanted."
"I think as a first step, I would need to actually go up in an aeroplane." He gave her a solemn look. "After all, what if I turn out to be airsick?
"Jack! I didn't realise you'd never flown at all? Now, that is a wrong that's begging to be rectified." She drained her glass and set it down, as though she would drag him to the airfield that very instant.
He, too, finished his drink, and stood up. "It was Friedrich Nietzsche who said 'He who would learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and walk and run and climb and dance; one cannot fly into flying.'"
He smiled down at her and offered his hand.
"In the absence of an aeroplane, Mrs Robinson, may I have this dance?"
She accepted his hand with a sparkling glance.
Music proved unnecessary.