“The Jennys were disappointed in each other. Each seemed to be wasting an opportunity the other was sure she would’ve made more of.”
Being special was pointless if you didn’t use it.
The next time one of Anna’s movies came on she let it play. It was the one she hated least, the one where she played Angry Skater Girl with purple streaks in her hair. Skater Girl, who dared to defy Perfect Blonde Girl, the wickedest witch of all. Only to find her, of course, not so wicked: only lonely and scared, like everybody else.
Sadness is a museum of sadness. Happiness has no history.
Mona had fingers like spiders, crawled them over my shoulders. She was braiding my hair when the lights at the carnival went out, left me with a half-finished French braid.
Remember a different meal, like that November Saturday, the details as disquieting and spare as a Hemingway story.
Just a week before, when his father could still speak, he recalled the swallows returning to San Juan de Capistrano, just down the coast.
At first the creatures took small trinkets Lawrence had no desire to keep. He watched from his bed, patchwork quilt pulled up to his throat.
His fur was lush, his breath moist. I told myself to grab the knife. He inhaled. His ribs meshed with mine. I told myself: Not yet.
In truth, he driver was distracted, as all of us are sometimes, and after A passed by, he advanced into the intersection at speed without a thought.