Mom loved my brother more. Not that she didn't love me - I felt the wash of her love every day, pouring over me, but it was a different kind, siphoned from a different, and tamer, body of water. I was her darling daughter; Joseph was her it.

and I get refill number three or four and the wine is making my bones loose and it's giving my hair a red sheen and my breasts are blooming and my eyes feel sultry and wise and the dress is water.

I didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.

The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.

We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.

Language is the ticket to plot and character, after all, because both are built out of language.

But I loved George in part because he believed me; because if I stood in a cold, plain room and yelled FIRE, he would walk over and ask me why.