Her body required more than his: more heat, more alcohol, more specialized treatments, and always more attention.
Bare backs, bare arms, strong scents. You haven’t touched another human being in a while. Sharing spaces imbued in aroma is intimacy.
Think about the time Elizabeth tried to kill you. How she threw one of your mother’s navy blue pumps at your forehead. She hoped the three-inch heel would go straight through your skull and lodge into your brain.
It’s the adult thing to do, thought Jack, to help people if you can. Then, no, he thought. It’s the childish thing, the need to find out if the world’s promise of danger is real.
Louise decided that in the winter she would hibernate. She created a cave in her bedroom closet and filled it with modern necessities.
Once, when we were younger, Mr. Shabadogi, Navid and I threw pennies into the water below the bridge and wished we weren’t spending Thanksgiving in Baltimore.
Lucy is pregnant. She calls the clinic and makes an appointment for her fourth abortion. She is twenty-three.
Just because a man shows up on your balcony doesn’t mean it’s a good thing, no matter how agreeable he is.
We talk about you behind your back, Samantha Oswald. In the hallways and the bathrooms and the cafeteria. In the locker room after field hockey practice. You’re very popular.
Life is not how you thought it was. An intruder is in your house. Glassy, unclosing eyes have been watching your most secret rituals.
It had to do with desire, the Eugene O’Neill sort of desire, the sort that you can’t ignore, that you shouldn’t ignore. It would be wrong to ignore.
nothing linear for the learned, no betters, none worse, no caste, but processing, there’s only 10 kinds of people in the world, the on-off switch fires or doesn’t fire for them, the on-off switch doesn’t exist…
I believe in the things that you believe in, he said. You and I are one, he said. That makes sense to me, I said, where do you sign me up, so he took me to the voting booth and held my hand while I pressed the button.
It was during my last year as a graduate student in San Diego that I experienced for the first time what it meant to be the object of someone else’s… how should I put it? “Romantic interest”? “Passion”? “Love”? Until then, love had been for me something I was in, and the object of my affection was either dead, or a literary character, or some other unattainable person.