“This city is dying of rabies. Is the best I can do to wipe random flecks of foam from its lips?”

“He's leaning in towards me. He's looking at my lips. They've probably got hot chocolate foam on them or something, but I can't seem to move any of my muscles to wipe it off.”

“Smile. it's the second best thing you can do with your lips.”

“Around us I can sniff out a savagery in the noisy southern air. It knifes it's way into my nose, but I do not bleed blood. It's fear I bleed, and it gushes out over my lip. I wipe it away, in a hurry.”

“The foam cushionson the old couch downstairsdisintegratedailyin a hush,like each of us,small flecks ofhardening puffsraining mute to the floorwhen I flop down to study.And the more the couch gets used,the less foam it keeps--somedayjust an uncomfortable frame,springs and other inner workingsexposed.Silent.”

“I'd rather have rabies than be in love.""Why?""Because at least you can get over rabies with some shots.”