Being the survivor stinks.

When two people are meant to be together, they will be together. It's fate.

It's just a crazy damned life, that's all.

My platitudes don't hold their interest and I can hardly blame them for that. My real stories are all out of date. So what if I can speak firsthand about the Spanish flu, the advent of the automobile, world wars, cold wars, guerrilla wars, and Sputnik — that's all ancient history now. But what else do I have to offer? Nothing happens to me anymore. That's the reality of getting old, and I guess that's really the crux of the matter. I'm not ready to be old yet.

Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.

I stroke her lightly, memorizing her body. I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin. I lie motionless, savoring the feeling of her body against mine. I'm afraid to breathe in case I break the spell.

...poking a lump of red Jello that jiggles outrageously, like a breast I once knew.