I wanted to, you know, get my story out in the world, which, it turns out, is a very misguided notion.

We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors . . . But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters.

I hated being careful, too - or wanted to, at least.

Nothing's wrong. Everything's right. Things couldn't be righter. Things could be less tired. They could be less busy. They could be less caffeinated. But they couldn't be righter.

I thought you hung the moon.

All good American literature is always interested in people who are ambiguously heroic, like Gatsby.

Her underwear, her jeans, the comforter, my corduroys and my boxers between us, I thought. Five layers, and yet I felt it, the nervous warmth of touching – a pale reflection of the fireworks of one mouth on another, but a reflection nonetheless. And in the almostness of the moment, I cared at least enough. I wasn’t sure whether I liked her, and doubted whether I could trust her, but I cared at least enough to try to find out. Her on my bed, wide green eyes staring down at me. The enduring mystery of her sly, almost smirking, smile. Five layers between us.