Myrnin turned away to pick up his Ben Franklin spectacles, balanced them on his nose, and looked over them to say, "Don't do drugs. I feel I ought to say that.

Where are you going?” “To get a Coke!” “Would you—” “No!

You couldn't be romantic if your life depended on it." "You know what's lucky? Most bad guys don't ask you to be romantic on command, so that probably won't matter.

You were right,” she said. “You were always right, about everything. And I will always love you, Sam. Forever.

Keys," she repeated, and slowly stepped back. "What do you mean, keys?" "Car keys. As in, give them up. Now." Shane had that look -- hard, and no bullshit. "We don't have time for your drama, Monica. Nobody does.

Want me to warm up the sauce?” “Do we do that? I mean, it’s in a jar, right? Can’t you just dump it over the pasta?” “Well, you can, but it tastes better if you warm it up.” “Oh.” Eve sighed. “This is complicated. No wonder I never cook.

Human nature was all about shifting blame...and responsibility. How else could you explain concentration camps and genocide and all the awful things people did to each other every day? They just carried on life and pretended like the evil didn't exist, as long as it was happening out of their direct view.