With my hand in his, I looked at all the apartment buildings with rushes of love, peering in the wide streetside windows that revealed living rooms painted in dark burgandies and matte reds.

I admired that stride; it was like he folded space in two with it.

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

I am the drying meadow; you the unspoken apology; he is the fluctuating distance between mother and son; she is the first gesture that creates a quiet that is full enough to make the baby sleep. My genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope; make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen.

I give boring people something to discuss over corn.

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

You're the perfect girl', he said, rubbing his chin. 'You expect nothing.