I have a great wife and it's very easy to be romantic because it makes her happy and then my life is so much better when she's happy.

Nothing about this entire scenario made sense. But who cares? Once in a while, everyone was entitled to be a bit flaky, and now it was his turn.

I've learned that memories can have a physical, almost living presence.

He always apologized, and sometimes he would even cry because of the bruises he'd made on her arms or legs or her back. He would say that he hated what he'd done, but in the next breath tell her she'd deserved it. That if she'd been more careful, it wouldn't have happened. That if she'd been paying attention or hadn't been so stupid, he wouldn't have lost his temper.

You don't feel the need to talk all the time, do you," she said. He smiled. "No." "Most people don't know how to appreciate silence. They can't help talking." "I talk, I just want to have something to say first.

Working on the plot/story idea for my next novel ... It always takes time.

I'm going to marry you one day, you know." "Is that a promise?" "If you want it to be.