A novel is a conversation starter, and if the author isn't there for the after-party, both the writer and the reader are missing a lot.

Sean reaches out between us and takes my wrist. He press his thumb on my pulse. My heartbeat trips and surges against his skin. I'm pinned by his touch, a sort of fearful magic. We stand and stand, and I wait for my pulse against his finger to slow, but it doesn't Finally, he releases my wrist and says," I'll see you on the cliffs tomorrow.

It is possible to be in love with you just because of who you are.

Okay, outside," the clerk said. "Conversation outside. Bye! Have a nice night!

I tired the back door -- unlocked. Truley the Man Upstairs was smiling down on me.

Rilke says: Verweilung, auch am Verstrautesten nicht, ist uns gegeben - We are not allowed to linger, even with what is most intimate.

Happiness isn't something this island yields easily; the ground is too rocky and the sun too sparse for it to flourish.