“I was going to say polka dots don’t change their spots, but sometimes they can. They do. You’re married to a cop, and I’m living in an urban castle.” He stopped the car, leaned over to kiss her. “Polka dots are spots.” “Until they get smeared and blend together. Then they’re splotches.” “That’s both true and confusing,” he decided. “So we’ve smeared our spots into splotches for each other.”
