People left a lot of things behind when they went in the water. Their clothes, their stuff, their makeup, their fixed-up hair, their voices, their hearing, their sight—at least as the normally experienced them.

She wasn’t sure if he wanted more from her or if he wanted less. Maybe it was both. Maybe it was always both.

Maybe they would look at each other and feel some odd yearning, but neither of them would know why. They would want to stop, but they would be embarrassed, and neither would know what to say. They would go their separate ways. Who knew? Maybe that happened every day to people who'd once loved each other.

I dont really write with the idea of trying to teach any lessons. I want to tell a story as truthfully and engagingly as I can, and then let the chips fall where they may.

There was one thing Bridget like about guys. They took insults well.

She remembered me.' This was his worst weakness, his most toxic drug.

How many times could you give up on someone you loved?