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We both begin to laugh like lunatics. At the parts we played for the evening, at the selves we are in that moment. We bend over each other, gasping for air, slapping each other’s knees.
Her slight smile holds primal mysteries accessible only through blood.
“People don’t make mistakes; they make choices.”
My mother always prefers the singular focus of vengeance over the multifaceted aspects of regret or grief or pain.
Violence as an act of love.
I try to will her back to my side. I’m too weak without her, too unqualified to live in the world on my own. I need her. But Yevgenia needs freedom. She always has.
A book will always be your best friend and your lover. There are intimacies that live in them that cannot be replicated between people.
Faith, I decide, may be easier to achieve in a plump cushion like this, the soft landing of the middle class. Because the only thing that feels certain is that I will not be saved.
Brody is choosing to be tied to Terri’s derailing train, and I get it. She’s alive and here. And she wants him for now, if only to say that she kept him. It’s a kind of love. Who am I to mess with that?
This is how time moves in the desert. Slow and deliberate, unseen but seen, an apparition. A mother. She’s there, in the corner of your eye. You look and then she’s gone.
What are words but sounds that shape the here and now?
