Janice used to say that instinct was reason in a hurry; I was not so sure about the reason part.

I did not know my soul until I saw it's reflection in your eyes.

If you let go of me now,” I whispered, stretching against him, “it could be another six hundred years before you find me again. Are you willing to take that risk?

Only weak men want women to be weak.

Was I insane? Maybe. But then, there were many different kinds of insanity. Aunt Rose had always taken for granted that the whole world was in a state of constantly fluctuating madness, and that a neurosis was not an illness, but a fact of life, like pimples. Some have more, some have less, but only truly abnormal people have none at all. This commonsense philosophy had consoled me many times before, and it did now, too.

By the time we left college, I had become my own image: a dandelion in the flower bed of society. Kinda cute, but still a weed.

And whether or not we had now paid our dues, he was my blessing, and I was his.