She Used To Tell Me That She

He Was Afraid That The Secrets She'd Kept Would Always Be Here, Inside Him, An Ugly Malignant Thing Lodged Near Enough To His Heart To Upset Its Rhythm, And Though It Could Be Removed, Cut Out, There Would Always Be Scars; Bits And Pieces Of It Would Remain In His Blood, Making It Wrong Somehow, So That If He Accidentally Sliced His Skin Open, His Blood Would--for One Heartbeat--flow As Black As India Ink Before It Remembered That It Should Be Red.

I Guess No One Stays Friends For More Than Thirty Years Without Broken Hearts Along The Way.

Some Stories Don't Have Happy Endings. Even Love Stories. Maybe Especially Love Stories.

That Was The Thing About Best Friends. Like Sisters And Mothers, They Could Piss You Off And Make You Cry And Break Your Heart, But In The End, When The Chips Were Down, They Were There, Making You Laugh Even In Your Darkest Hours.

The Hallmark Of My Books Is The Relationships That Define Women's Lives.