Whenever, like two people turned to stone, we sit down to a meal together or meet at the door at night because each of us has just remembered about locking up, I feel our sadness is an arch, a great bow extending from, one end of the world to the other—which is: from Hanna to me-and in the drawn bow an arrow aimed straight at the heart of the unmoving sky.
The first set had ended things. The second was just to let the air in.
Among the many rules on the grief bus, the most sacred, perhaps, is this: never ask for information not freely offered.
He will live on for decades—eating, talking, laughing, fucking—while she will cease to exist in just a few weeks.
The building was frustrating. Was that because the person who lived in it was?
She walked as if she were afraid that putting one foot down on the floor too hard would make the boards crack.
After talking about his vegetables, we inevitably talk about the past.
Could two people stay in love, when one had injured the other in such a permanent and visible way?
Nobody trusts a writer, but they will generally talk themselves into cooperating if you let them.
Maître Susane knew she didn’t need Sharon’s energy, youth, or abilities, she knew full well that those virtues were wasted in her apartment, where there was literally nothing to do.
He felt as though the psychologist had uncovered a secret about him and was waiting until this day to tell him.