I'll tell you something about true love. There's no science to it. It's as natural as the sky.

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

I want to make a world more magical than my own. I don't care if it makes sense, I don't care if it's ridiculed or if, rather than a neat round planet that goes around forever, it ends with a cliff that falls off into nothing. I want to have my eyes wide open, and I want to see this room and at the same time, not this room.

His three wives are huddled together on the bare mattress, one of them dying; when we're together, we form an alliance he can't touch. He's scared to even try.

There was a desperate undercurrent to our marriage--a feeling of being in a dream from which I couldn't seem to awaken. A nagging sense that my life, laid out so neatly like the clothes Deirdre left on my divan, was no longer my own.

Even things that aren't broken can be fixed.

I've done it all before, I tell myself, and I can do it again. Trust is the strongest weapon.