"I am just sitting here with you. I must not be very entertaining, just following the traceries on pages as we grow older, losing our moments. Do you want something else of the afternoon? We could go to town, or to the water. Just let me return my book to it's place, and then we can go where ever you like."

"No I mean, where shall you place my love? Shall you organize it into a pocket, or bat it back to me? Do you have any sorted in all your pockets for me?"

"Now you're teasing me. Pockets protect me. If I can place and carry my effects, I am never lost. I can put the time there, a fruit-knife there, my notebook there, a map behind it, quills and inks here, money under here, a comb right there, and if you look in here, I brought some plum tarts, but they're for later."

"Am I for later?"

"No. Later I shall go home."

"After the tarts?"

"Yes."

"How about later than that? What if I follow you and call your name, and sing you songs, and cut you roses for your room? What if I give you money for your pockets? What if I want to stay?"

"Well, you are forward, and chaotic. One can't pocket a person, you know. You will upset my rhythms and consume my time. I fear more for the freedom of coffee and the crinkling visits of my correspondents than I do for my virtue. If If a man approaches me with cherries in his glance, I surely know enough to dissuade his vines and repel his shoes by showing him bay leaves, by reminding him politely of the spicules beneath all exoskeletons, and by giving back his request, egg by egg, graciously but firmly."

"But I love you."

"Oh, but I love you too. You see, it's written right here in my datebook. I just will not allow you to make me your subset with your protestations of subjugation."

"What if I insist?"