“The venom," she [Susan] said quietly. "They call it their Kiss.""I guess I can't blame them. It sounds a lot more romantic than 'narcotic drool.”

“Call me hopeless romantic but I want to see my friend with the guy she's been pining for forever.... I want that more than anything on this earth.”

“We split a bottle of Norman cider. Not everybody sells Norman cider by the bottle. "Has a European feel" Susan said."That sounds terrific" I said. "Can I have one?"Susan grinned at me. "How did you ever get to be so big without growing up?" she said."Iron self-control" I said.”

“Good,' she said. Then she exhaled a long breath and leaned back in her seat. 'I can't believe I just talked to you like that. Ugh. I sounded like someone's mother.' She said "mother" like she was talking about cockroaches or snakes.'It was pretty impressive,' I said. 'I never would have guessed you were an amateur.”

“People always sounded worried when I called them. Maybe because I only ever called a lot of them when I was in trouble and needed help. I needed to set up more lunch dates or have more parties, to cure people of the idea that a call from me automatically equaled danger. Then again, that was probably a lost cause.”

“I guessed that only at the last possible minute did the soul in a determined fashion flee the dying flesh. Who could blame it for its reluctance? We loved our lives more than we ever knew, and at the end felt the bounty of them, as one would say in church, felt even the richness of their missed opportunities, or just understood that they were more than we had realized during the living of them and a lot to give up.”