She has the majesty of hurricanes and explosions.

But instead of tears, when I press my face against the pillow, a horrible, primal scream comes out of me. It's unlike anything I thought myself capable of. Rage, unlike anything I've ever known.

But I know all the things you're too sweet to know.

There's a sort of dead passion in him. A spark that, had he more years to live, would be a wildfire.

You’re insane, you know that?” he says. “It’s the only thing keeping me afloat,” I say.

Times like this, when she slips her hand into mine and holds on tight, and our husband becomes just a shadow in the doorway.

Hope, that risky, illustrious thing. It should have gone extinct by now, but we keep it alive.