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“Nothing,” she told me, “appeals more to a man than a young girl who’s not been had yet, apart from a girl who’s not been had yet and gives the impression she’ll be had by him.” She made me think of myself as a piece of fruit and the act of sex like plucking a plum with a rough hand, bruising the flesh.
It’s a dangerous thing, to try and give someone everything. One day, you might find you’ve given away things you should’ve kept.
Never had she looked more beautiful. Never had she felt so far removed from me.
“Thank God for small blessings.” “Not God: nature and its tendency to decay.”
I pressed her hands against my breastbone and nursed the soft little pain of loving her, this tender ache that left me breathless and quiet.
“I had done everything for him. I’d denied myself, torn myself apart, and given parts of me away I should have kept, and for what? For love? If that was love, it came at much too steep a price. I couldn’t pay it anymore.
“Sometimes, I think that all I am is what he made me,” she murmured.
