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The “falling out of love” stuff is pretty bad. The “I don’t fancy you” stuff is killer.)
I always thought something brilliant might happen to me on a train.
“One day we will sit in a nursing home, Dolly, bored out of our minds and staring at the quilt on our laps,” she said. “And all we will have to make us smile are these memories.”
It’s like he’s a human Tamagotchi.”
I would love nothing more than to conduct a sort of literary salon in which all my beloved friends bring their comfort blankets from childhood to the table and we discuss the gender identities of all of them. I would, believe it or not, find that completely compelling.
“Nothing is weird for us to be doing anymore. Nothing feels like an extraordinary, premature achievement. It’s just what we’re meant to be doing.”
When you approach thirty, married friends will have a sort of amnesia about what being single was like. They will become your own Mrs. Bennets. They will think everything comes down to you being too picky, and you are Marie Antoinette sitting on a powder-pink velvet throne shooing men away one by one with a pearl-studded fan.
