The rest of 2012’s big winners are romances, all but one (The Lucky One, by Nicholas Sparks) of the sexed-up genre now known as “mommy-porn.
I think that perhaps we always fall in love the very first instant we see the man of our dreams, even though, at the time, reason may be telling us otherwise, and we may fight against that instinct, hoping against hope that we won’t win, until there comes a point when we allow ourselves to be vanquished by our feelings.
It was time to take what he wanted. And what he wanted was her.
You’re better looking than me. You’re more intelligent than me. Your personality is more likable than mine. You make more money than me. Your family is nicer than mine. Your religion is better than mine. You’ve seen more beaches than me. You’ve been to more cities than me. Your automobile is nicer than mine. Your significant other is better looking than mine. Your candidate won. Your home team won. You’re number one. But life is a tie. We all die.
One day I finally decided, that there is no point sharing my feelings, You don’t enjoy…
He’d thought it would be the right thing to say, but she scoffed a little… and that, more than anything-more than the prospect of having his ribs crushed in or his face pulled off or his neck stretched on a rope-scared him out of his wits.
Though I play at the edges of knowing,
truly I know
our part is not knowing,
but looking, and touching, and loving
Sink into morbid, cynical reflection on how much romantic heartbreak is to do with ego and miffed pride rather than actual loss
His gaze drank me in and he made no attempt to conceal that fact.
She was a woman of combined beauty and quiet strength. No wonder he had fallen in love with her so many years ago. No wonder he was in love with her now.
And she would never know it.