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There was something about flirting, just a little—the tiniest sip—with her own destruction that appealed to the darkness in her.
“The tricky thing about grief,” his mom said, “is that even when we know it’s coming, we underestimate our own capacity for suffering.”
“The world is cruel and unrelenting, full of pain and injustice,” she said again, leaning just slightly toward him, “and I am a stick of dynamite.” Ethan’s breath caught in his chest, but she wasn’t done. “Sometimes ineffectual, other times unnecessarily destructive, but, on occasion, enough to at least temporarily disrupt the rhythm of the patriarchal abyss threatening to suck down everything I care about and hold it hostage.”
“I forgot that love is essential. That even in its absence, you occupy yourself with the lack of it.”
“This world is full of people who would rather hate you than examine the pain in their own hearts. They will try to limit who you can love, who you can spend time with, who you can fuck. Some of these people will act like their condemnation is in your best interest. Like one day you’ll thank them for showing you the error of your ways. Some of them feel better about their own lives when they can deny the validity of yours.”
