When I take to my bed, it’s good to know whether I’m sick or just lazy.
Wear this, don't wear that. Do this chore now and do this chore when you get a chance and by that I mean now. And definitely, definitely give up the things you love fro me, so I will have proof that y...
We climb three flights of warped stairs and walk into a whoosh of body heat and
To know exactly what I wanted to hear in those notes, to woo me back to her, even to predict all my wrong moves … the woman knew me cold. Better than anyone in the world, she knew me. All this time I’...
The waitress, a plain brunette disguised as a pretty brunette...
The day of Amma’s arrest, the day it finally, completely unraveled, Curry and Eileen parked themselves on my couch, like concerned salt and pepper shakers.
The bartender was another old, gray-haired fat guy. It seemed like a joke, how much all these dudes looked alike, like living was so hard it just erased your features, rubbed out anything distinctive.
Tell me about Wind Gap. Curry held the tip of a ballpoint pen at his grizzled chin. I could picture the tiny prick of blue it would leave among the stubble. It’s at the very bottom of Missouri, in the...
Strangling is the very definition of dominance. Slow-motion murder.
So how likely is it I'll meet someone I love, much less someone I love enough to marry? I'm tired of not knowing who I'll be with, or if I'll be with anyone.
So I killed a hobo today, honey . . . hahahaha! Ah, we have fun! Nick
She’s a planner. She doesn’t, you know, wing anything. She likes to make lists and check things off, get things done.
She was one of those middle-aged women who thought they were fooling people.
She tried to speak; her mouth opened, once, twice, silent, a mermaid washed ashore.
She stared at me and I could tell what she was thinking: You are a gameplayer. You are a sociopath. You are a killer.
She has never told me she loved me, and I never assumed she did.
She had perfect skin, so free of blotches or wrinkles, her face so perfect and character-free she could have just popped out of the womb. They all seemed unfinished. I wanted them to go away.
Republicans go to Sam’s Club, Democrats go to Costco. But everyone buys bulk because—unlike Manhattanites—they all have space to store twenty-four jars of sweet pickles.
Only Tanner Bolt could get away with making me, a client, fly to him, then tell me what kind of dance I’d need to do in order to give him my money.
One should never marry a man who doesn’t own a decent set of scissors. That would be my advice. It leads to bad things.