If she wasn't careful, she'd slide without a ripple into the gently flowing stream of her old life, pulled back under the current without a wimper of protest. Another housewife lost in the flow.

She is like a child picking at a scab, unable to stop herself even though she knows it will hurt.

From the first time we met, we knew everything that mattered about each other, didn't we? We just knew. I guess that's what best friends are: parts of each other.

Then he left her there, standing alone, surrounded by word ghosts; things she could have said.

Stacey: "I'm surprised you haven't thrown me out." Comfort: "At your current weight, I'd need some sort of catapult.

Some stories don't have happy endings. Even love stories. Maybe especially love stories.

Real friends. The kind that don't purposely hurt your feelings or stop liking you for no reason.