He just wanted to look at her and know her life was marching along under the same arch of time and space as he is.
Grief was like a newborn, and the first three months were hard as hell, but by six months you’d recognized defeat, shifted your life around, and made room for it.
She got tired of herself. She got tired of not being able to say what she wanted or do what she wanted or even want what she wanted.
Why not celebrate what you had had rather than spend your time mourning its passing? There
could be joy in things that ended.
She hadn’t chosen the brave life. She’d chosen the small, fearful one.
People sometimes talk about the power of first impressions, and believe me, there is truth to it.
The summers before that are a blur of baby oil and Sun-In and hating our bodies (I got big breasts; Tibby got no breasts) at the Rockwood public swimming pool.
She’d never felt about anyone the way she’d felt about him. Not even close. She knew that when she got old it would be more fun to look back on a life of romance and adventure than a life of quiet habits. But looking back was easy. It was the doing that was painful.
I agreed sincerely and ardently
She realized all at once the deeper thing that bothered her, the thing that made him not just irritating but intolerable: how he kept loving her blindly when she deserved it so little.