She saw herself riding in the passenger seat, Sam behind the wheel. Like two of those little peg people in a toy car. Husband peg, wife peg, side by side. Facing the road and not looking at each other; for why would they need to, really, having gone beyond the visible surface long ago. No hope of admiring gazes anymore, no chance of unremitting adoration. Nothing left to show but their plain, true, homely, interior selves, which were actually much richer anyhow.

But if you never did anything you couldn't undo you'd end up doing nothing at all.

He was wondering if there was some cryptic, cultish mark on his door that told all the crazy people he'd have trouble saying no.

I love to think about chance - about how one little overheard word, one pebble in a shoe, can change the universe.

Once your mind is caught on the right snag, there's nothing so hard about the mechanics of writing.

And she thought what a clean, simple life she would have led if it weren't for love.

... everyone must play his role.