Hating politics was like hating the weather. Pointless, since both were inevitable.

Hating politics was like hating the weather. Pointless, since both were inevitable.

This was what she needed… the quiet turning to the other in the middle of the night, the wordless meeting of lips, skin, breath. The trust, unfurling one pale petal at a time, that he would be there.

She had of course, kept working. He liked to think she would have moved under the table to continue her task if a gun battle had broken out, but he wasn't sure.

Women were complicated creatures. Any man who thought he had one figured out simply wasn't paying attention.

How to put this feeling, this certainty, into something as limited as words?

I see you. I will be careful with the places that hurt.