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Tuesday had never thought of it in those terms, but yes, she didn’t trust people. People, in groups, alone—people disappointed you. That was what they did. They abandoned you. They didn’t believe you. They looked through you like you were made of smoke. You had your family, your work colleagues; you needed other humans around so you didn’t go completely feral, but the only person you could trust completely with yourself was yourself. That was, like . . . Basic Humanity 101.
oof. feeling a little uncomfortably called out here.
He was a Vice President who Managed Marketing, whatever the hell that meant, and his hairline was receding at the same rate as his childhood dreams.
lol
Every time Dex succeeded in making Tuesday smile, it was like seeing a rainbow over a haunted house.
They started The X-Files over the summer. Dorry loved it so much she dreamed about it. It made Dorry want to grow up, because the world was big and strange and exciting, and as long as you had your true partner—and you loved each other so much you couldn’t even, like, discuss it—you would live to fight another monster. You might meet a miracle.
lol this child's Mulder/Scully feels are correct.
“I knew you’d say that,” he said. “Which is why I brought this—” Dorry didn’t need to hear more. She bolted into the living room, Gunnar bouncing in her arms. “Don’t you TOUCH her,” she shouted, “or I will throw this cat at you.” The stranger was holding a piece of paper between his first two fingers. Tuesday was reaching for it. Gunnar sort of sighed. “He has claws,” Dorry said. “And he knows how to use them.”
i like this teenaged child, she has good instincts.
Under a streetlamp, two guys in bandanas banged syncopated beats on upturned plastic tubs while a third did the worm on the sidewalk, the last of the day’s buskers, playing, now, for the locals. Drumming in the city made her walk differently. It loosened her hips. Brought her back into her body, ready to bend and to move.
“He said he’d rather proceed as though she were dead than live with false hope,” her dad squeaked. “Can you—can you imagine? Is that pessimism? Is that—what is that?” And her mother said, “It’s a ritual. A rite. A motion to go through simply to move.”
“‘Yes,’ I told Heather. Yes, I would rather eat delicious falafel at the joint around the corner than flatter my way to an intimacy with someone for whom marriage is a financial transaction, young flesh for old, security for heirs. Yes, I would rather enjoy creamy tahini, a soft pita, those perfectly fried little balls, than torture myself about what was or was not happening in my life when my life was good. Yes, I rejected marriage—as an abstract, arbitrary signifier, as a legal and social status that determined my value, as a bullshitty benchmark I’d blown past years ago anyway. Yes!” She
...more
same, girl
“So I walk into this karaoke bar, still eating my falafel,” Lila said. “It was so good, salty and rich, crispy and soft, like deep-fried freedom and truth and acceptance. It tasted like the known, owned self. It tasted like fuck you, patriarchy.
lila is a woman after my own heart
He had a toothy grin and a big nose, and ears that stuck out almost as much as his hair.
i'm gonna go out on a limb and call it right now: vince is archie's dad, and the clue is the EARS + archie's possible plastic surgery ETA: okay, i was off base here
The lawn of Boston Common, the low sloping part from the merry-go-round and the frog pond to the road that cut between the Common and the Public Garden, was a crowd. Of all sorts of people, old and young, black and Asian and white and brown, skinny and fat and short and tall, and they were all in costume, and because they were all in costume, it was like looking straight into their hearts at what they loved or who they wanted to be.
Love lasted by becoming art.
