My household is, in a nice way, very busy.

She perched on her windowsill, gazing at the lurid sun soaking into the Caldera, trying to appreciate it even though she couldn’t have it. Why did she always feel she had to do something in the face of beauty?

His distress and pleasure mixed and married, giving birth to several anxious children.

Sometimes he felt sure that the key to happiness was a poor memory.

She had never had a boy talk to her like that. There was no cover of bullshit, no flirtation, no added charm, but his look was searing. He was different from anyone she had known.

I’m sorry you asked me out, otherwise maybe I could have liked you.

Luck never gives; it lends.