“My wolf was a cute guy and he was holding my hand. I could die happy.”

“Also, he was kind of cute. Not really, of course, since he was the enemy, and the enemy cannot possibly be cute. He was only cute enough to make me wish I could free my hands so that I could fix my hair. I mean, fix my hair, then punch him in the face, and then run.”

“And when he did that, my hands curled into fists because I thought about touching his face like maybe I could catch joy in my hands and hold it.”

“I now, weak, old, diseased, poor, dying, hold still my soul in my hands, and I regret nothing.”

“He then put both hands on the door on either side of my head and leaned in close, pinning me against it. I trembled like a downy rabbit caught in the clutches of a wolf. The wolf came closer. He bent his head and began nuzzling my cheek. The problem was…I wanted the wolf to devour me.”

“Recipe for a happy marriage: My wife and I always hold hands. If I let go, she shops.”