As A Novelist, I'm Incredibly Lucky To

…and You Smile Back And Try Not To Think About The Fact That You Have Nothing, Absolutely Nothing, To Say To Each Other.

Dexter, I Love You So Much. So, So Much, And I Probably Always Will. I Just Don't Like You Anymore. I'm Sorry.

There's Something Unnatural About A Woman Finding Babies Or, More Specifically, Conversation About Babies, Boring. They'll Think She's Bitter, Jealous, Lonely. But She's Also Bored Of Everybody Telling Her How Lucky She Is, What With All That Sleep And All That Freedom And Spare Time, The Ability To Go On Dates Or Head Off To Paris At A Moments Notice. It Sounds Like They're Consoling Her, And She Resents This And Feels Patronized By It.

Emma Was A Shocking Driver, Simultaneously Sloppy And Petrified, And For The First Fifty Miles Had Been Absent-mindedly Driving With Her Spectacles On Top Of Her Contact Lenses So That Other Traffic Loomed Menacingly Out Of Nowhere Like Alien Space Cruisers.

It's The Face Itself That I Love, Not That Face At Twenty-eight Or Thirty-four Or Forty-three. It's That Face.