Henry I don't want anyone else but, some times, surprisingly, there's someone, not the prettiest, or the most available, but you know that, in another life, it would be her. Or him, don't you find? A small quickening, the room responds slighly to being entered, you catch the glint of being someone else's possibility, and it's a... sort of politeness to show you haven't missed it. So you push it a little, well within safety. But there's that sense of a promise almost being made. The touching and kissing, without which noone can seem to say good morning in this ponce business and one more push would do it. Billy. Right?

in The Real Thing, by Tom Stoppard.