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But she was one of those skanky skanks who looked cool. Who worked her skankedness. Who made skankdom something you’d consider aspiring to.
“You, that dress, those shoes, that hair, beverages and furniture you can get horizontal on would not be a good combination.”
“Warm afghans, pretty blue eyes, totally dorky and an unbelievably wet, sweet pussy,” he murmured against my neck, then lifted his head and looked down at me before he finished on a whisper, “The girl of my dreams.”
“Lost love, precious,” Grams replied, turning her head to look out the side window. “Stings like a wasp bite that never fades.”
If you’re the kind of woman who can withstand the blaze of hellfire he’s got burning inside, he battles that and wins, you will know nothing for the rest of your life, no taste, no experience, not even the birth of your children that will be sweeter than the love he’ll have for you.”
“You, just like that, any man would fight and die for the privilege of comin’ home to that every day.”
“Love you, Grams.” “I know, child. What do you think’s keepin’ me on this earth? Not easy to let go that kind of love. That kind of love’s got the power to hold you tethered to a world you should have left a long time ago.”
“She doesn’t do it for me, Hanna, because I didn’t fall in love with her when I saw her across a street, hair shining in the sun, laughing. You do it for me because you were that girl across the street, your hair shining in the sun, laughing, making me fall in love with you, and I didn’t even goddamned fucking know you.”
