It gave me a sharp kind of sadness to think that no matter how much I loved him and tried to put him back together again, he might stay broken forever.

If I can write one sentence, simple and true every day, I'll be satisfied.

And that's when he finally tells me his name is Ernest. I'm thinking of giving it away, though. Ernest is so dull, and Hemingway? Who wants a Hemingway?

Though I often looked for one, I finally had to admit that there could be no cure for Paris.

But in the end, fighting for a love that was already gone felt like trying to live in the ruins of a lost city.

But when Bumby nursed, his fist clutching the fabric of my robe, his eyes soft and bottomless and locked on mine, as if I were the very heart of his universe, I couldn't help but melt into him.

I'd never met anyone so vibrant or alive. He moved like light.