“If I could only make her fall in love with me. Pretend to be a writer and just fuck her and have her cook for me. I would never have to write I’d just pretend.”

“Could she kiss him? Would he allow her that? Was that something he could pretend was nothing? What about making love? Could she just open up her legs and pull him inside her and have him all she wanted and later give her assent that it was nothing?”

“I suggest you...Fuck."Even if it was an invitation, I doubt I would have been able to take her up on it just then. Inspiring as she could be in bed, I just didn't have it in me at the moment.”

“She had me alright. I was a fucked up mess. I should have known it was hopeless to try to get her out of my system and nothing could make me fall out of love.”

“When I write now, I pretend I'm holding hands with the old me. I try to make sense of all those questions for her...”

“M. That’s what I call her, this normal, nonexistent me. It’s not that I’ve never done those things, kissed or danced or just “hung out.” I have. But it was put-on, a character, a lie. I am so good at it—lying—but I can’t lie to myself. I can pretend to be M; I can wear her like a mask. But I can’t be her. I’ll never be her.”