I give boring people something to discuss over corn.

The writing I tend to think of as 'good' is good because it's mysterious.

But what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think? Before she knew it was candles, did she think she'd done it herself? With the amazing turns of her hips, and the warmth of the music inside her, did she believe, for even one glorious second, that her passion had arrived?

I could feel the tears beginning to collect in my throat again, but I pushed them apart, away from each other. Tears are only a threat in groups.

While she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave, the most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.

…kissing George was a little like rolling in caramel after spending years surviving off rice sticks.

I felt the crumpled paper that had taken the place of my lungs expand as if released from a fist.