He was losing her incrementally. It might be a few stray hairs listless on the pillow, or the crescents of bitten fingernails tossed behind the headboard, or a dark shape dissolving in soap. As a net is no more than holes tied together, they were bonded by what was no longer there." (ARC p. 63)
Anthony MarraIt's stupid. There are maps to show you how to get to the place where you want to be but no maps that show you how to get to the time when you want to be.
Anthony MarraShe was fluent in four languages and yet her fists against the rusted hood were the fullest articulation of her defeat.
Anthony MarraShe praised his book and he embraced her from gratitude rather than lust, but she didn't let go. Neither did he. She kissed his cheek, his earlobe. For months they'd run their fingers around the hem of their affection without once acknowledging the fabric. The circumference of the world tightened to what their arms encompassed. She sat on the desk, between the columns of read and unread manuscript, and pulled him toward her by his index fingers.
Anthony Marra