"Do you know what you remind me of ?"
She shook her head slightly and continued to look at him.
He watched her a moment, watched her watch him, and continued- "When I was young, I took a walk one saturday flea-market morning. I liked getting antiques, then. Funny, isn't it ? Back then, I loved tradition and heritage and antiques, the whole caboodle as though it were my whole reason for living. Now, when i ought to be romanticizing about the olden days, I can't stand the sight of anything less than forty years younger than me... Yes, so. I was going in and out examining these antiques as though I was some kind of goddam expert, when in one of these runs-of-the-mill, I saw this pot. "
"I remind you of a pot ?", curling into a smile.
" Yes, this particular one- a cooking pot, with some kind of pattern- oddly enough, not floral- on it. and it was old. Looked very... worn. Not, you understand, broken or cracked or in bad shape, just worn. As though it had been used, for long years. And you didn't mind, because it wasn't a very beautiful pot. Not delicate or pretty or gold-leaf-expensive. Just old and kind of plain, and happy with all that. A contented pot."
He stopped, ran his fingers through his beard, raised his chin, looking at the panelling above her head now, then lowered it again slightly and went on.
"I couldn't afford it."