Things were happening around us, but nothing was happening between us.

Memories are small prayers to God, if we believed in that sort of thing.

The world is a big place," he said, "but so is the inside of an apartment!

I felt it very moving to feel his touch, and to remember that hands can also show love.

I wanted to hit him. I wanted to hold him. I wanted to shout myself into his ear.

I would have done anything for him. Maybe that was my sickness. We made love in nothing places and turned the lights off. It felt like crying. We could not look at each other. It always had to be from behind. Like that first time. And I knew he wasn't thinking of me. He squeezed my sides so hard, and pushed so hard. Like he was trying to push me through to somewhere else. Why does anyone ever make love?

It was not the feeling of completeness I so needed, but the feeling of not being empty.