Used to be, in the long-ago days of romanticism in the movies, that a girl would peer soulfully into a boy’s eyes and say, “Tell me what you really think about me.” And then the boy, nobody’s fool, would answer quietly: “I think you’re wonderful.” These days, the boy more likely says, “I think the real reason you want me to answer that question is that you can’t answer it for yourself.” And then the girl, who looks like a terminal TB case, shivers and says, “You know too much about me. It’s scary.” And she puffs on her Silva Thin. Now this sort of honesty is all right for deep conversations
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