“What do you see in a guy like Christian Prescott?" he asked me that night when he dropped me off from prom. And what he was really saying then, what would have come through loud and clear if I hadn't been so blind was, why don't you see me?”

“Look, I know this is the last thing you want to talk about, but I wanted to ask you . . . .” He trailed off, looking strangely uneasy.“Ask me . . . ?” Ask me to dinner? Ask me out for drinks? Ask me if I wanted to see what he looked like under that uniform? Yow, where’d that last one come from?”

“Some guys-- a lot of guys---don't believe what they are seeing, especially if it gets in the way of what they eat or drink or think or believe. Me, I don't believe in God. But if I saw him, I would. I wouldn't just go around saying 'Jesus, that was a great special effect.' The definition of an asshole is a guy who doesn't believe what he's seeing. And you can quote me.”

“Cole, do you feel anything for me?" I don't know what made me ask this, except that Jack had asked him the night of the Tunnels. It obviously surprised him.He backed up. "What?"I inched forward, not quite sure I was going with this. "Do you feel...something for me?"He was quiet, still as a statue, so I moved even closer. "Don't, Nik." His gaze dropped to the ground."If you feel anything, please leave me alone. I don't know why I survived. I don't have your answer. Shadowing me will get you nothing."Then he did something unexpected. He backed down, and as he turned around to his motorcycle, he shook his head and mumbled, "What have you done to me?""I don't know," I said. "But you have ninety-nine years to figure it out."He kicked it on and revved the engine, and at the sound, he found his cocky smirk again. "That's a long time, Nik. Jack is gone, and I'm here. Let's see who gives up first.”

“You like me,” he finally said. “You like me, like me.” He was trying not to smile.“No. I hate you,” I said, hoping that saying it would make it so.“And yet, you draw me.” Noah was still smug, completely undeterred by my declaration.This was torture; worse somehow than what just happened, even though it was only the two of us. Or because it was only the two of us.“Why?” he asked.“Why what?” What could I say? Noah, despite you being an asshole, or maybe because of it, I’d like to rip off your clothes and have your babies. Don’t tell.”

“Paul Edgecomb: What do you want me to do John? I'll do it. You want me to let you walk out of here and see how far you get? John Coffey: Now why would you want to do a foolish thing like that? Paul Edgecomb: When I die and I stand before God awaiting judgment and he asks me why I let one of HIS miracles die, what am I gonna say, that it was my job?”