“Well, as long as it crossed your mind, you might have gone ahead and given it a thought.”

“Impertinence, Roosevelt, impertinence.”

“An aside, Peggy. Would you have told her what I’d planned to do to you, by way of foreplay to the aforementioned activities?”

“Hypothetically speaking? No. I’ve seen her look at you, but I don’t think she has the balls to look at you that way with me anywhere nearby.”

“Oh. So she does think of me that way?”

“If she thought a little flirting, a bit of artfully exposed teen flesh would get her …”

“A bigger tip?”

“Yes, well, exactly. But no, she doesn’t seem that far gone into the teen-anomie, Mena-Suvari-in-”American Beauty” routine that she’d just press you up against a wall, yank your pants down and batten her jawline against your belt buckle and start worrying your 9-iron free from its case so you could practice your putting game along the artfully unmanicured rough of her 16th hole. You’re doing it again, you know that?”