...a sad sort of vulnerability was wafting from her, making the night smell like maple syrup.

Sometimes its necessary to embrace the magic, to find out what's real in life, and in one's own heart.

It was early evening when they walked outside, the sky the color of pink lemonade.

She never thought she was good at making friends. But maybe she was just trying to be friends with the wrong people.

The trick is not to make eye contact. They don't charge if you don't make eye contact.

There was an art to the male posterior. That's all there was to it.

She was so Southern that she cried tears that came straight from the Mississippi, and she always smelled faintly of cottonwood and peaches.