And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.

People die of broken hearts. They have heart attacks. And it's the heart that hurts most when things go wrong and fall apart.

Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man's gentleness, his thereness. (p.36)

Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

He left Himmel Street wearing his hangover and a suit.

I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her.

Something I'd like to be perfect at? ... Loving you,' I said. The words climbed from my mouth. 'I'd want to be perfect at loving you.