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Two a.m. is terrible time for dwelling on legal issues. Worst of all the times. If midnight is witching hour, two a.m. is dwelling hour.
That’s trademark Katherin—she always says bringing up the Cold War startles people into submission.
She wouldn’t be so judgmental if she’d read it.
That feeling again, the trapped hateful rage at hearing someone you try so hard to love saying the worst things.
“Your brain can do amazing stuff to protect itself from pain,”
Life is often simple, but you don’t notice how simple it was until it gets incredibly complicated, like how you never feel grateful for being well until you’re ill, or how you never appreciate your tights drawer until you rip a pair and have no spares.
If this was a divorce and I was their child, social services would be called.
“Look,” he says, “have you ever looked forward to reading a book so much you can’t actually start it?”
I have a feeling Tiffy becomes “our girl” easily—she’s the sort of person distant relatives and absent neighbors still like to claim some credit for.
Tiffy: All this free stuff. It’s like a dream come true. I should drown more often. Me: Please don’t.
“Tea?” “Did you make it?” “No, I got the house elf to do it.”
It’s weird how easily you can get to know someone from the traces they leave behind when they go.
“Relationships like that stop being about ‘voluntarily’ very quickly. There’s lots of ways someone can make you stay with them, or think you want to.”
She’s dressed as Elsa from Frozen, much like every girl hosting a birthday party in the Western hemisphere since 2013.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I say automatically, the way you learn to from the age of eight.
