“I was just going to call and say hi.""Give me the phone." I hand it over. Jess, despite her scrawniness, is stronger than I am and could beat me up. She turns my cell off and hands it back. Clearly, I'm very drunk, because it appears to me that the matter is now closed.”

“I haven't yet figured out who I want to be, dear," Ruth says, answering both my questions, and then throws her head back in a hearty, unselfconscious laugh. "I'm not kidding. I haven't figure it out yet. But don't tell my daughters that. I lie to them every day. I tell them they will figure it out, with time. To just keep doing what they are doing. But let me let you in on a little secret, because I think you can handle it.' She leans in to whisper in my ear.All parents lie to their children. It's our duty. But the truth of the matter is, I don't think many of us know what we are doing. We all walk around much of the time confused and very much alone.”

“As I leave my building, Robert wolf-whistles at me, long and drawn out. Probably inappropriate of my doorman, but I appreciate the compliment. "I don't know where you're going," Robert says, "but you're going to knock them dead.""Thanks," I say, and decide it's better to keep to myself that I am headed to the constant-care floor of the Riverdale Retirement Home. The one place where that's a real possibility.”

“I convince myself that I am having fun playing big lawyer in the big city-working all hours, surrounded by a ringing phone and day-old pizza crust. That I am reveling in this life of a caricature. But that would be a lie, because the truth is that I don't really feel much of anything at all. Just a dull ache around my edges.”

“I miss the way he used to kiss my shoulder whenever it was bare and he was nearby. I miss how he cleared his throat before he took a sip of water and scratched his left arm with his right hand when he was nervous. I miss how he tucked my hair behind my ear when it came loose and took my temperature when I was sick or when he was bored. I miss his glasses on my nightstand. I miss watching him take Sunday afternoon naps on my couch, with the newspaper resting on his stomach like a blanket. How his hands stayed clasped, fingers intertwined, while he slept. I miss the cadence of his speech and the stupidity of his puns. I miss playing doctor when we made love, and even when we didn't. I miss his smell, like fresh laundry and honey (because of his shampoo) at his place. Fresh laundry and coconut (because of my shampoo) at mine. I miss that he used to force me to listen to French rap and would sing along in a horrible accent. I miss that he always said "I love you" when he hung up the phone with his sister, never shy or embarassed, regardless of who else was around. I miss that his ideal Friday night included a DVD, eating Chinese food right out of the carton, and cuddling on top of my duvet cover. I miss that he reread books from his childhood and then from mine. I miss that he was the only man that I have ever farted on, and with, freely. I miss that he understood that the holidays were hard for me and that he wanted me to never feel lonely.”

“When it is our turn to check in, the woman behind the counter smiles brightly at us despite the cruel hour. I attempt to return her enthusiasm, but my lips don't have the energy for it. The effect is something like a snarl.”

“This is the opposite of love, I realize, when I look over and see my empty couch, see right through my imaginary companions. The opposite of love isn't hate; it isn't even indifference. It's fucking disembowelment. Hara-kiri. Taking a huge shovel and digging out your own heart, and your intestines, and leaving behind nothing. Nothing of yourself to give, nothing, even, to take away. Nothing but a quiet pulse and some mildly entertaining soap operas.If to love is to hand over self and heart, then this, my friend, this - to self-disembowel - is its opposite.I wish I knew how to needlepoint so I could stitch it onto a fucking pillow.”