I know that asshole you were with in college --”
“Can we leave that asshole out of it?”
Please, gentlemen, one asshole at a time.

I do not want this cat. No, Nat. Not in a hat. Not in my flat. Not in the store, not anymore, just out the door. --if you please.

See! He likes you,” Natalie said triumphantly.

I stared down at the scrawny scrap of fur cautiously sniffing my hand.
“He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m going to feed him.”

“Now who’s being a cynic? Anyway, every bookstore should have a cat.”

The cat -- assuming it was a cat and not some beige bug-eyed refugee from outer space -- slunk uneasily down the counter, and flinched at the flutter of Mystery Scene pages as a gust of warm air blew in from the street.

So you're like a ... an amateur sleuth?"

"God no. I'm more like the hapless guys in those film-noir flicks we used to watch. I keep getting tangled up in bizarro events."

"Oh yes?” His eyes lit with enthusiasm. I was speaking his language now. “Guy Pearce in L.A. Confidential or William Hurt in Body Heat?"

"I was thinking more like Woody Allen in Play It Again, Sam.

She went on, “Yes, Porter and I did discuss divorce, and we realized we loved each other too much to do anything so silly.”
“That’s got to be a comfort to you now,” I said. “I can imagine how painful it would be to have someone you care for die with a lot of unresolved --”
“Yes!” she exclaimed. “That is exactly right!” She gave me an approving lashless gaze.
“See, gay guys always understand these things!”
“We’re born with that understanding gene,” I said.

Her back to me, she said, “I know what Paul thinks. Everyone thinks I didn’t love Porter, that I just married him for the money, but Porter and I --” She shrugged.
As avowals of lasting love go, I’ve sat through more professional presentations.
But I said, “No outsider can understand a relationship between two people.” Hell, sometimes even the people in the relationship couldn’t understand it.