But in love each moment is magnified, and every gesture, word and syllable is examined like a speech by the President.

If you want something badly enough, you make arrangements. If you don't want it badly enough, you make excuses.

Almost certainly I will not tell her my intentions this evening or tonight. I will put it off. Why? Because words are actions and they make things happen. Once they are out you cannot put them back.

Security and safety were the reward of dullness.

I guess writing is a kind of therapy in the sense that there are things you need to say and you say them, and better out than in.

One would hope, as well that intimacy would leave more of a mark, that more of it would remain. But it doesn’t. You just end up thinking, who is this person?

If jealousy was the vindaloo of love, I'd imagined her tongue burning, and such a fire forcing her to spill her truth.