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A lighthouse through the fog. She smiles, and Henry’s world goes brighter. She turns away, and it is dark again.
“But isn’t it wonderful,” she says, “to be an idea?”
He didn’t realize how much connective tissue was made up of guilt. Without the weight of it, he feels dizzy and light.
Teaching is an extension of learning, a way to be a perpetual student.
How does a ceiling bring you closer to heaven? If God is so large, why build walls to hold Him in?
Memories are stiff, but thoughts are freer things. They throw out roots, they spread and tangle, and come untethered from their source.
“You want me as a meal, or a glass of wine. Just another thing to be consumed.” He dips his head, presses his lips to her collarbone. “Is that so wrong?” She fights back a shiver as he kisses her throat. “Is it such a bad thing…” His mouth trails along her jaw. “… to be savored?” His breath brushes her ear. “To be relished?”
she is tired, and he is the place she wants to rest.
If you loved me, you would have let me go by now.” Luc flicks his fingers. “What nonsense,” he says. “It is because I love you that I won’t. Love is hungry. Love is selfish.” “You are thinking of possession.”
And this, he decides, is what a good-bye should be. Not a period, but an ellipsis, a statement trailing off, until someone is there to pick it up.
They teach you growing up that you are only one thing at a time—angry, lonely, content—but he’s never found that to be true. He is a dozen things at once. He is lost and scared and grateful, he is sorry and happy and afraid.
Not the em dash of an interrupted line, or the ellipsis of a quiet escape, but a period, a closed parenthesis, an end. An end. That is the thing about living in the present, and only the present, it is a run-on sentence.
