Her hands were freezing, just like they always were, so I warmed them, just like I always did.

You don’t share me. You own me.

In Rome, I really wanted an Audrey Hepburn Roman Holiday experience, but the Trevi Fountain was crowded, there was a McDonald's at the base of the Spanish Steps, and the ruins smelled like cat pee because of all the strays. The same thing happened in Prague, where I'd been yearning for some of the bohemianism of The Unbearable Lightness of Being. But no, there were no fabulous artists, no guys who looked remotely like a young Daniel Day-Lewis. I saw this one mysterious-looking guy reading Sartre in a cafe, but then his cell phone rang and he started talking in aloud Texan twang.

Even going to jail would be easy compared to losing you.

The line between true self and feigned self is blurred on all sides. Which I think is a rather handy metaphor for falling in love.

I want to ask him where that kitchen is. Where he's from. But he seems guarded. Or maybe it's me. Maybe making friends is a specific skill, and I missed the lesson.

Leaving people to jumped conclusions is sometimes simpler than explaining a complicated truth