“I’ve been fucked up the ass by Fate. What do you think you can do to me with your little, fucking penis?”

“Just in case you were thinking, on some level, that there was even the slightest bit of enjoyment in it for me. That I found a strange sort of freedom in your vicious embrace. Your embrace. There is no freedom there. There is only what has to be done.”

“How do you make love to someone when you know they’ll be gone forever the next day? How do you spend the last few hours with someone when you know there will never beanything after that?”

“That’s what forgiving was: seeing someone for what they were, flaws and all, not what you wanted them to be, not what they should have been.”

“But you could conceivably be attracted to me. Theoretically.”“But then again. Maybe not. Your eyes, I mean. Because, of course, you’re a homicidal maniac.”“Stop, you’ll make me blush.”“With a sense of humor that makes you even more disturbing.”

“I am. A child is helpless; I think it is the betrayal that destroys them. But a grownup is – usually – not helpless. Grownups expect betrayal. What they can’t stand to be is powerless. That’s what destroys them.”

“Why is this,” she asked, again in that dreamy tone, “so much more real than that? One’s night, one’s day, why is this so much more real? That I can’t forget the things from the day, and I can’t remember the things from the night?”