“Me?” she said mournfully, gazing into the bottom of her martini. “Me? Please, I’m built like a pencil.”
“No,” he replied thoughtfully, “your figure is more akin to a fountain pen. A very, very expensive fountain pen. Sleek, slender, silver…and fragile-looking to the eye but with a surprising and very satisfying weight in your hand, and a mercurial roll in your fingers. It takes skill to hold it. It takes skill to write with it. But once you master the fountain pen you will never go back…”
She raised her eyebrows at him and slowly finished her drink. “I’ll write down my number for you,” she said finally, “do you have a pen?”
“Certainly,” he said, going for his inside pocket.