My first kiss. A new kind of kiss, like the new kind of music still playing, softly, in the distance - wild and arrhythmic, desperate. Passionate.

This is one of my favorite things about the Underground: the crashing of the cymbals, the screeching guitar riffs, music that moves into the blood and makes you feel hot and wild and alive.

Love is a kind of possession. It’s a poison.

That’s what made it so frightening to the lawmakers: Love obeys no laws other than its own.

I keep having the urge to cross my hands over my chest, to cover up my breasts, to hide. I'm suddenly aware of how pale I look in the sunshine, and how many moles I have spotting up and down my chest, and I just know he's looking at me thinking i'm wrong or deformed. But the he breathes, 'Beautiful' and when his eyes meet mine I know that he really, truly means it.

It's Connecticut: being like the people around you is the whole point.

Because?' I prompt 'Because I'm sorry, but I can't help it, and I really need to kiss you right now.