All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.

At twenty-eight I'd had a handful of beaux, but had only been in love once, and that had been awful enough to make me doubt men and myself for a good long while.

There was only today to throw yourself into without thinking about tomorrow, let alone forever. To keep you from thinking, there was liquor, an ocean's worth at least, all the usual vices and plenty of rope to hang yourself with. Love is a beautiful liar.

All that was left for me was a terrible kind of paralysis, this waiting game, this heartbreak game.

I preferred to look at the sea, which said nothing and never made you feel alone.

This was my one brush with love. Was it love? It felt awful enough. I spent another two years crawling around in the skin of it, smoking too much and growing too thin and having stray thoughts of jumping from my balcony like a tortured heroine in a Russian novel.

And sometimes I think there isn’t anything to us but our mistakes.