He wound the scarf around his fingers until her hand was hanging in the space between them. Then he slid the silk and his fingers into her open palm. And Eleanor disintegrated.

All through first and second and third hour, Eleanor rubbed her palm. Nothing happened. How could it be possible that there were that many never ending all in one place? And were they always there, or did they just flip on wherever they felt like it? Because, if they were always there, how did she manage to turn doorknobs without fainting? Maybe this was why so many people said it felt better to drive a stick shift.

I don't want to do anything. I don't even want to start this day because then I'll just be expected to finish it.

You're wearing at least four different kinds of sweater." "This is a scarf." "You look tarred and sweatered.

It was the nicest thing she could imagine. It made her want to have his babies and give him both of her kidneys.

It’s not my job to want you or not want you. It’s not my job to earn you.

Park was never going to love her more than he did on the day they said goodbye. And she couldn’t bear to think of him loving her less.