Lover? I don't know. I don't know if she loves me. I don't know if I love her. All I can say is, she's the one I think about. All the time. She's the voice I want to hear. She's the face I hope to see.

Suddenly I've had enough of all this. I've had enough of being made to feel insecure and paranoid and wondering what's going on

Ok. don't panic. Don't panic. It's only a VISA bill. It's a piece of paper; a few numbers. I mean, just how scary can a few numbers be?

If you're single, then I'm single?" What's that supposed to be? Lyrics to a pop song?

The great thing about being a novelist is that you organize your own day.

Except...I do. Of course I do. Because as his hands gently cup my waist, I don't make a sound. As he swivels me around to face him, I don't make a sound. I don't need to. We're still talking. Every touch he makes, every imprint of his skin is like another word, another thought, a continuation of our conversation. And we're not done yet. Not yet.

Sometimes, when I can't get to sleep, I imagine all the rules I'd invent if I ever got to be in charge of the world.