“I have an old soul,” begins Eliza. “I am a model of healthy humanity,” chops Ezra. “Friendship is a waste of time,” lobs Eliza. “I dream of a booze-infused orgy,” shoots Ezra. “I am a booze-infused orgy,” is Eliza’s reverse-twist. “I have erotic curiosities,” topspins Ezra. “I can take life as it is and leave it at that,” backhands Eliza. “I slow down to inspect traffic accidents at the risk of causing another,” lies Ezra. “You mustn’t keep asking yourself why you feel what you feel,” is Eliza’s dropshot. “I am a flawless triumph!” “I am a floored triumph!” “I take myself very seriously,” is Ezra’s sudden half-volley. “… therefore I do not need to …” serves Eliza. “I am a puzzle,” “I, a solution,” “I am flimsy,” “I am whimsy,” the ground strokes went on, leading nowhere, for the tiebreak was truced and the play-and-serve love match was an even double. “I am the perfect fiancée,” leaned in Eliza. “I am the perfect fiasco,” advanced Ezra, headmanning a drop pass.

Furiously paced, this private nonsense went on until at least one face cracked, not because any of the puck-handled dribble had been funny in the least, but because, well, what it must be to be in love.