“Talk into here. Talk into my bullet hole. Tell me I'm fine.”
“Talk into my bullet hole. Tell me I'm fine.”
“Lola?" Cricket is on his knees at the side of my bed. I feel it. "I'm here," he whispers. "You can talk to me or not talk to me, but I'm here.”
“No words for a long time. Which is fine, because even the most important ones-- I love you. I'm sorry. Forgive me? I'm here-- are only stand-ins for what you can say better without talking at all.”
“People are here because they've got baggage. I'm talking curbside-check-in, pay-the-fine-'cause-it's-over-fifty-pounds kind of baggage. Get it?”
“Let me tell you what I just heard. Talk, talk, talk, I. Talk, talk, talk, I. Well, what about me?”