All men love to talk about themselves, even the ones who are completely buggers.

I stared at Jean-Claude and it wasn't the beauty of him that made me love him, it was just him. It was love made up of a thousand touches, a million conversations, a trillion shared looks. A love made up of danger shared, enemies conquered, a determination to neither of us would change the other, even if we could. I love Jean-Claude, all of him, because if I took away the Machiavellian plottings, the labyrinth of his mind, it would lessen him, make him someone else.

No such thing as a hard woman, Memphis,just soft men. With that, I turned, and the others followed me.

I never said I was consistent.

That's what you get for telling the truth. Someone calls you a liar. Most people will accept a likely lie to an unlikely truth. In fact, they prefer it.

was a clear, pale blue like the eyes of a Siberian husky dog. Human beings just didn't have eyes like that.

she was just that shiver that makes you walk faster at night. You don't know why you do it, but some part of you remembers that the dark is never really empty. ~Anita