“Everything was ours, our reality untamed by time and misogyny, and the price we’d pay for living remained alien to us.”

“I’ve seen too much writing lately that makes metaphors of hunger.”

“We are sometimes called upon to compromise our sense of propriety in the name of love.”

“Can you see the brushstrokes? Do you want to touch them? Do you want to lick the paint?”

“Damn, I felt how my dad looked. BLACK. Bleachers. BLACK. Dancefloor. BLACK. Fools started shoving motherfuckers. Did a fight break out? “

It’s Saturday morning and we have until Sunday night. I know our weekend routine better than my weekday schedule, storing it in the part of my brain reserved for things I actually like.

“What he didn’t understand was that the more heavenly our experience, the starker its contrast with my mind’s occupations, the wider the chasm would yawn between us, the more alienated I’d be. It was like the story of Moses, in which the water of the Egyptians was turned into blood. A curse had crippled me. Shown blue ocean, I saw crimson gore.”

You’ve never been a woman. You’ve been inside a woman, but you’ve never been a woman with something inside of her. You are inside of me. You marvel at the shape of my bladder.

I’ve figured out other things too, things that would be obvious to anyone but me, like how those friends weren’t really my friends. They were Buddy’s. And going our own ways would feel like nothing.