We pencil-sketch our previous life so we can contrast it to the technicolor of the moment.

You wanna-I dunno-get coffee or something sometime?" Justin smiled "Not coffee. But yes." "Not Coffee it is, then." "Yes, Not Coffee.

She asked me what was wrong, and I told her I had to end it. She was surprised, and asked my why I thought so. I told her it wasn't a thought, more a feeling, like I couldn't breathe and knew I had to get some air. It was a survival instinct, I told her. She said it was time for dinner. Then she sat me down and told me not to worry. She said moments like this were like waking up in the middle of the night: You're scared, your'e disoriented, and you're completely convinced you're right. But then you stay awake a little longer and you realize things aren't as fearful as they seem.

I don’t like it when you use my shampoo, because then your hair smells like me, not you.

But we comforted ourselves with what we really meant to say, which was: "I don't normally feel this good about what I'm doing." Measure the hope of that moment, that feeling. Everything else will be measured against it.

She stays in the same spot, anchored by the profound, desperate loneliness of a bad relationship.

Maybe there is hope in the fragments, that what is lost can always be filled in by someone who knows.