She smiled as sweetly as a show poster for the glorified, all-American Ziegfeld girl just before dumping her second cigarette into Wally’s fresh cup of coffee.

When the music is over, she keeps her head down till she finds her seat again, and I wonder how many times each day she dies a little.

Might. Is there any opiate more powerful than that word?

How do people stay in love, anyway? Is it a choice? Or is it like those plants we studied in biology that mutate into something new and totally different but are still part of the same plant family?

The hand you hold the longest is your own.

"Promise. Don't misunderstand me-you are quite vexing." He touches his tender jaw. "And you hit like a man. But you didn't cause his illness. That is his doing."

I want to ask him if it’s possible that a girl can be born unlovable, or does she just become that way?