Holly (Holly Gibney #3)

by Stephen King

Forty is when you have to stop kidding yourself that you’re still a young anything. If you don’t—if you subscribe to such self-actualizing bullshit as “forty is the new twenty-five”—you’re going to find yourself starting to slide. Just a little at first, but then a little more, and all at once you’re fifty with a belly poking out your belt buckle and cholesterol-busters in the medicine cabinet. At twenty, the body forgives. At forty, forgiveness is provisional at best.

Here is another relationship chilled by the fast-talking man in the red tie. It’s not fate and not coincidence.

What you don’t want to do is what must be done first. Then it’s out of the way.