We had put almost all of our possessions in storage, which was a metaphor for being twenty, as were so many things.

I missed him. Love, I realized, was something your spine memorized. There was nothing you could do about that.

Things between us were dissolving like an ice cub in a glass: the smaller it got, the faster it disappeared.

When she packed up to leave, she knew that she was saying goodbye to something important, which was not that bad, in a way, because it meant that at least you had said hello to it to begin with.

Make a list of all the lovers you've ever had. Warren Lasher Ed "Rubberhead" Catapano Charles Deats or Keats Alfonse Tuck it in your pocket. Leave it lying around, conspicuously. Somehow you lose it. Make "mislaid" jokes to yourself. Make another list.

Love is a fever," she said. "And when you come out of it you'll discover whether you've been lucky - or not.

One should never turn one's back on a vivid imagination.