Sometimes A Flat-footed Sentence Is What Serves,

A Five-hour Flight Works Out To Three Days And Nights On Land, By Rail, From Sea To Shining Sea. You Can Chalk Off The Hours On The Back Of The Seat Ahead. But Seventy-some Hours Will Not Seem So Long To You If You Tell Yourself First: This Is Where I Am Going To Be For The Rest Of My Natural Life.

I've Always Known When I Start A Story What The Last Line Is. It's Always Been The Case, Since The First Story I Ever Wrote. I Don't Know How It's Going To Get There, But I Seem To Need The Destination. I Need To Know Where I End Up. It Never Changes, Ever.

I Think Of The Chimp, The One With The Talking Hands. In The Course Of The Experiment, That Chimp Had A Baby. Imagine How Her Trainers Must Have Thrilled When The Mother, Without Prompting, Began To Sign Her Newborn. Baby, Drink Milk. Baby, Play Ball. And When The Baby Died, The Mother Stood Over The Body, Her Wrinkled Hands Moving With Animal Grace, Forming Again And Again The Words: Baby, Come Hug, Baby Come Hug, Fluent Now In The Language Of Grief.

I Think You Would Like Warren. He Drinks Courvoisier In A Coke Can, And Has A Laugh Like You'd Find In A Cartoon Bubble.

What I Think," Chatty Says, "is That If A Man Loves A Woman More Than A Woman Loves A Man, Then They're Even.