My house is modern, but I like my writing room to be old fashioned. I write on a little wooden secretary desk.
My loneliness tasted like pennies.
The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
Inside every human being, there is unlimited time and space.
She kissed me on the mouth. Her mouth tasted like iced coffee and cardamom, and I was overwhelmed by the taste, her hot skin and the smell of unwashed hair. I was confused, but not unwilling. I would have let her do anything to me.
...The men eyed her with the automatic mix of curiosity, lust, and aesthetic judgment they always gave young women, subject to object, the way you'd stare at an animal. She pretended not to notice. To remind them she was a person was too much effort. Objects bore no guilt.