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.

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

There was a brief silence. I think I heard snow falling.

Love means not ever having to say you're sorry.

Jenny, if you're so con­vinced I'm a loser, why did you bull­doze me into buy­ing you cof­fee?' She looked me straight in the eye and smiled. 'I like your body,' she said.

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