Hating politics was like hating the weather. Pointless, since both were inevitable.
Uh - do you want to do it outside? "Frequently. Oh, you meant the wedding. That, too.
Don't call the man a claustrophobe just because small spaces scare him. Right.
Surely a woman who picked a spot so close to the ocean didn't automatically hide from the rain.
What?" She drew herself up, stern as a cat presented with the wrong food for dinner.
How to put this feeling, this certainty, into something as limited as words?