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We just stared at each other with no disappointment and no recrimination, two terrible people with horrible stories, two terrible people who maybe were more interested in judging themselves than each other,
He nodded, and I nodded, a tacit agreement that we were both terrible people. Telling terrible stories. We’d let our masks slip enough times that they now lay shattered on the floor, but it was okay. We were okay.
Did you look at her? he’d wanted to ask. Tonight? Did you hear her voice? Did you see her expression when she first noticed me? Did you see her mouth?
He would die one day, and med students would find the sentences carved in his brain.
The certainty that if that was my life, I had to have done something to deserve it.
The kind of love I’m looking for, not everyone has the capacity for it,
We don’t make small talk. We cut through the flesh and show the stories that live in our skeletons.
this could be his craft. He could spend the next few years learning the nooks and crannies of her moods, studying her temperament, cataloging her disposition in all its little idiosyncrasies, and once he’d accrued an adequate body of research, it would be his mission and his pleasure: make Rue Siebert happy.
Being able to keep Vince fed, that had been happiness. And when I couldn’t, that’s when I’d begun to resent him, and the unfairness of what was being asked of me.
