I feel something very small growing inside me as I look at her, and I realize in one absolutely clear moment that I don't like her at all. 'You know what?' I say. 'Forget it. I'll do the list by myself.' She stands up, swings her stupid hair about and tries to look offended. It's a trick that works with guys, but it makes no difference to the way I feel about her.

Life is made up of a series of moments, each one a journey to the end.

The last few weeks, it was as if someone had taken his life to pieces and let him see the way it worked.

It's as if a child with a brush and too much enthusiasm has been set free with a tin of black paint inside me.

I imagine horses in the engine, their manes flying, their breaths steaming, their nostrils flaring as they gallop.

Is this how it is for everyone?' she whispered. 'No.' 'How do you know?' 'I just do. I've never felt this with anyone before.' 'Serious?' 'Serious. That isn't a line.' 'Kiss me,' she said. He did. Everywhere.

We make patterns, we share moments.