Age is a terrible thief. Just when you're getting the hang of life, it knocks your legs out from under you and stoops your back. It makes you ache and muddies your head and silently spreads cancer throughout your spouse.

I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.

I'm truly grateful for my microwave, which allows me to easily clarify butter, steam vegetables, and - when I am really lazy - feed my three kids in less than five minutes.

Why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?

I scan the room. Catherine is writing quickly, her light brown hair falling over her face. She is left-handed, and because she writes in pencil her left arm is silver from wrist to elbow.

I stare at her for a long moment. I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life.

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