“I’m crossing my fingers that we grow deaf together. I’m pleased just writing you.”

“But you're sleep, and you're a few miles away, and I have no means to get to you right now, so I’m writing.”

“Gonna pretend to be a deaf mute who knows no sign one day, meet a woman, and we'll write for the rest of our lives.”

“Waking up in a room with no natural light does something to a man. no windows. I’m almost afraid to die. I fear my soul won’t make it out.”

“I,” I start, and she turns to look at my lips moving, rehearsing for some grand proposal. “I think it’d be good idea if you brought a few books over and left them on my shelf.” I’m a writer, and this is as good as it gets. She didn’t need a ring, just the ability to borrow a bookmark whenever she needed, or unwritten or unspoken permission to take my copy of Cecil Brown’s The Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger with the original cover.”

“I’m learning men cannot teach men to build their castles with bricks. time must do that.”

“What happens if one day we’re standing in a kitchen, dishwasher empty, oven and air full, you’re washing and I’m drying, and the ring slips down the drain and flushes out to sea?”