The waves of pain that had only lapped at me before now reared high up and washed over my head, pulling me under. I did not resurface.

He squeezes my hand, and my heart punches against my ribs. It's just like pain, this pleasure.

The thing people don't realize, God bless them, is that my books are supposed to suck.

My skin burns where it meets his. It feels better than good, but it sets off a strange aching in my chest.

What were you two doing last night, discussing the national debt?

Not many people get every single thing they want plus all the things they didn't think to ask for in the same day.

Children in the abstract, had never appealed to me. They seemed to be loud creatures, often dripping some form of goo.