Dark waves fell along the side of his face and he stared, pleading for me to see more of him. To see the truth. “Maybe I want to be the kind of guy a girl like you believes in.
We bask in the scent of cinnamon before Mom puts a scone her plate. 'His name is Rich,' she says. I select a scone too. 'I like a man with an adjective for a name.
When a boy's first romantic interlude is with Pheobe the Dog-Faced Girl, he feels a need to get out into the world and find a new life.
A bore or an uggo might manage not to get up anyone's nose, but if a girl's got brains and looks and personality, she's going to piss someone off, somewhere along the way.
As for sex. Well, of course I could’ve had sex. Guys will have sex with a watermelon if they’re desperate enough. Lots of girls try to prove their love by having sex. It only proves they’re having sex.
...The reason why we’re strippers, is invariably more boring, more grounded in nonexistential needs like money—and pragmatic concerns, like money.
People who buy the little jars and boxes aren’t staying. They only want enough to last them while they’re here.” --Ginger the Checkout girl from The Great Northern Coven
I—though forced through lack of space to assume the form of a stoic guinea pig crouched between the girl's shoe and the glove compartment—was my usual dignified self.
...and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, 'That was fine'. And your life is a long line of fine.
I turned my ear toward the door because I heard him breathing. When you’re alone and afraid, the simple sound of the steady in and out of air being drawn by another person is good medicine.
E pensei: o amor faz você querer ser um homem melhor - certo, certo. Mas talvez amor, amor de verdade, também lhe de a permissão para ser apenas o homem que é.
Ever been in a spelling bee as a kid? That snowy second after the announcement of the word as you sift your brain to see if you can spell it? It was like that, the blank panic.
We speed through the streets past modern buildings and ancient architecture. Gazing through the taxi window Rome becomes a wet painting someone has wiped a hand across.
He leaned toward me and said his name like he was sharing a secret and it made me think he probably kept a lot of secrets. His smile was sweet and his teeth the tiniest bit crooked.
I still believed he'd love me again somehow, love me that intense, thick way he did, the way that made everything good.
She closed the book and put her cheek against it. There was still an odor of a library on it, of dust, leather, binding glue, and old paper, one book carrying the smell of hundreds.
I’d known cruelty in a school—cruelty that would keep these amateurs up all night. But this kind of scene—crowds batting around a person because they thought he was weak—happened to be my personal trigger.
No, no, I'm not one of them. I'm one of you. I believe that Jesus Christ is Lord, but I also wear fishnet stockings and drink single malt Scotch.
I found I could only glance at him for tiny moments and then I had to look away. He was perfect enough to hurt my feelings for a long time, and I wanted to let him.
When you get tired of worrying and mourning your horse and trying not to be afraid, tell me and I'll do it for you a while so you can shut your eyes and sleep peaceful.
Love makes you want to be a better man. But maybe love, real love, also gives you permission to just be the man you are.
