I was afraid of being rejected, yes. I was also afraid of being accepted for the wrong reasons.

Something may have been lost in translation, but it certainly wasn't love

Her handwriting was curious — small sharp little letters with no capitals (who did she think she was, e. e. cummings?).

And then I did what I had never done in his presence, much less in his arms. I cried.

The pain of not knowing what to do was exceeded only by that of knowing what I had done.

This isn't a watercolor, it's a mural.

But what does he do to qualify as a sonovabitch?” Jenny asked. “Make me”, I replied. “Beg pardon?” “Make me”, I repeated. Her eyes widened like saucers. “You mean like incest?” she asked. “Don’t give me your family problems, Jen. I have enough of my own.” “Like what, Oliver?” she asked, “like just what is it he makes you do?” “The ‘right things’”, I said. “What’s wrong with the ‘right things’?” she asked, delighting in the apparent paradox.