“He joked while Dali cut him, mangling the words with his monstrous jaws, snarled with a pretended rage and dramatically promised to "kirrrl youraaalll for this!”

“In every room there is a mirror before which he stands attentively and chews his rage, and from the constant chewing, from the grumbling and mumbling and the muttering and cursing his jaws have gotten unhinged and they sag badly and, when he rubs his beard, pieces of his jaw crumble away and he's so disgusted with himself that he stamps on his own jaw, grinds it to bits with his big heels.”

“It was the truth, vivid and monstrous, that all the while he had waited the wait was itself his portion.”

“While he was drunk asleep, or in his rage, or in the incestuous pleasure of his bed.”

“I’ve seen your foot up close.” Curran pointed to his chest. “I’ve seen it here.” He moved his hand to his jaw. “Here.” He touched the place over his cheek where my kick had cut him. “And here.”

“I lie in the dirt and pretend his words about my love don’t hurt, but they slice me like the ice cold winds of winter. It takes all of the power I have left to lie there quietly and not remind him of the promises he has not kept.”