Extraits :

“It’s not ‘clitched,’ ” he said. “It’s ‘hitched.’ ”

“You see?” she said. “Isn’t this just more of the same? You knew exactly what I meant—but you cannot even give me this much.”

He looked at her then and saw something ugly about himself looking back at him, not angrily but calmly, in her gaze.

[...]

Cathal felt a sudden need to get up, but he made himself stay in the chair, facing her.

“Would you like to know what she said?”

“I’m not sure.” He almost laughed.

“Then perhaps you can answer?”

“I don’t know,” he said, truthfully. “I’ve never once thought about it.”

“But I am asking you to think about it now.”

Cathal lifted his hand and reached for her plate, rose, and placed it on the draining board with his own before leaning back and holding on to the edge of the counter.

“I really don’t know,” he said. “What did she say?”

“She said things may now be changing, but that at least half of men your age just want us to shut up and give you what you want, that you’re spoiled and become contemptible when things don’t go your way.” ( )