“Instead, I cut him. Not deep, but there was enough of a sting in the wound to remind him of what I'd done to the dwarven mobsters in the parking lot - and that I wasn't just some chick with a knife who looked good in black.”

“What if it wasn't the guy from the bar? What if it was some freak out looking to whack some chick off because his mommy didn't make him buttered toast and cut it into fun shapes when he was a kid?”

“Close enough to fuck was close enough to shank him with a dagger hidden in the crease of some chick's jean shorts.”

“I wondered what my father had looked like that day, how he had felt, marrying the lively and beautiful girl who was my mother. I wondered what his life was like now. Did he ever think of us? I wanted to hate him, but I couldn't; I didn't know him well enough. Instead, I wondered about him occasionally, with a confused kind of longing. There was a place inside me carved out for him; I didn't want it to be there, but it was. Once, at the hardware store, Brooks had shown me how to use a drill. I'd made a tiny hole that went deep. The place for my father was like that.”

“Who me? God, no, I'm terrible . . . " Then, just as an experiment, I say, "And, besides, I don't think I'm good-looking enough to be an actor." Oh, that's not true! There are lots of actors who aren't good-looking . . .”

“I even had this idea that the knife stopped working, that after a certain time it just stops working for you, when your number is up. I thought maybe it was me who had done it. That I killed him just by growing older, and being ready to replace him.”