“As she dampens my shirt with sadness and snot, I realize I'm about to do another thing I've never done before. I suck in air and attempt to sing. “You're . . . sensational . . . ,” I croak, struggling for a trace of Frank's melody. “Sensational . . . that's all.”There's a pause, and then something shifts in Julie's demeanor. I realize she's laughing.“Oh wow,” she giggles, and looks up at me, her eyes still glistening above a grin. “That was beautiful, R, really. You and Zombie Sinatra should record Duets III.”I cough. “Didn't get . . . warm-up.”

“It's my purgatory, really, inner drinks, whatever. I'm never really all that interested, but I find myself telling her how beautiful she is anyway. 'Cause it's true, all women are, in one way or another. You know, there's always something about every damn one of you, it's a smile, a curve, a secret. You ladies really are the most amazing creatures, my life's work. But then there's the morning after, a hangover, and the realization that I'm not quite as available as I thought I was the night before. And then she's gone, and I'm haunted by yet another road not taken.”

“It's like when I first saw you at the Diabetic. I went up to you, but really you made the first move.""Shut up!" She remains unconvinced. "How?"I don't answer. I sit still. Then I look at her slyly out of the corner of my eye, before looking away. I look at her again, for longer this time, then drop my eyes. For my final look I stare, and bat my eyelashes provocatively.I must do a good job because Nia laughs. It feels goo to know I can do that."You look like such a dufus in those glasses! It's not sexy at all!" She puts her hand to her reddening face. "Oh. Did I really do that?""It worked, didn't it?”

“She was wearing one of my pajama suits, and had the sleeves rolled up. When she laughed I wanted her again. A moment later she asked me if I loved her. I said that sort of question had no meaning, really; but I supposed I didn't. She looked sad for a bit, but when we were getting our lunch ready she brightened up and started laughing and when she laughs I always want to kiss her.”

“You're a punk?''What?''What do they call people from the eighties?' I asked.'Oh,' she laughed. It was a beautiful laugh. 'I'm my mother, actually. I mean, these are her clothes from High School. I guess I should tell people I'm Cyndi Lauper though, or something, because dressing up as your mother is pretty lame.''I almost dressed up as my mother,' I said, 'but I was worried what my therapist would say.'She laughed again, and I realized that she thought I was joking. It was probably for the best, since telling her the second half of my mom costume - a giant fake butcher knife through the head - would probably freak her out.”

“Claire. Wake up.” She blinked and realized that her head was on Shane’s shoulder, and Michael was nowhere to be seen. Her first thought was, Oh my God, am I drooling? Her second was that she hadn’t realized she was so close to him, snuggled in. Her third was that although Michael’s part of the couch was empty, Shane hadn’t moved away. And he was watching her with warm, friendly eyes. Oh. Oh, wow, that was nice.”