Irene: “When I was a little girl, I dreamed of standing outside a wagon-wheeled bungalow while a dark-haired man tried to win my affections.”

Cary: “How fascinating. When I was a little girl, I dreamed of wearing questionable socks and glossy short-shorts.”

Irene: “That doesn’t sound right. Are you sure you didn’t dream of making me your wanton plaything?”

Cary: “Oh. Maybe I didn’t understand the question. Are you old enough to be taken wantonly?”

Irene: “I believe the door number makes it clear.”

Cary: “I see. Well, I suppose there could be wantonness, but I’m thrown off a bit by your couture.”

Irene: “Really? One would think that a referee-based outfit would appeal to your beastly love of sports. Pretend that I have just made a ruling in favor of the opposing team, which has inspired you to teach me a lesson. I must be punished. Repeatedly.”

Cary: “That does have a certain charm. But no referee I know would wear shoes like that. Nor anyone who actually intends to go swimming.”

Irene: “Oh, I plan to get wet alright.”

Cary: “Well, then. I wouldn’t dream of ruining your agenda. Should we head to your locker room?”

Irene: “With extreme haste. But first…”

Cary: “Yes?”

Irene: “Could you reach behind me and open the door? I managed to get my hair caught when it closed and I’ve been waiting three hours for somebody to walk by.”