an empty desk in the second row, a memorial to the girl who used to sit there.
Back then, when everybody thought the world would last forever, nobody had time for anything.
It’s not the cheating. It’s the hunger for an alternative. The refusal to accept unhappiness.
if the world were a museum of memories, a collection of places she’d outgrown.
a regimen of hardship and humiliation that at least offered you the dignity of feeling like your existence bore some sort of relationship to reality, that you were no longer engaged in a game of make-believe that would consume the rest of your
– she kept checking her e-mail every five minutes, carrying the phone everywhere she went, just in case he decided to get in touch while she was in the shower or the laundry room.
It’s like the Stone Age over there, just sand and rubble and IEDs.
In his heart of hearts, Jack London knew that we can never build a fire. Not when we really need to.
But he thought about him a lot in the years that followed, whenever anyone made a fag joke or said that gay men deserved to get AIDS. Sometimes, if the circumstances were right, Tim would challenge the speaker, ask if he- in Tims experience, it was always a he- had any friends who were gay. Almost always the guy would say no.
“Wait till you do
She would be a mentor and an inspiration to girls like herself, the quiet ones who’d sleepwalked their way through high school, knowing nothing except that they couldn’t possibly be happy with any of the choices the world seemed to be offering them.