“The Ballad of Lucy JordanThe morning sun touched lightly on the eyes of Lucy JordanIn a white suburban bedroom in a white suburban townAs she lay there 'neath the covers dreaming of a thousand loversTill the world turned to orange and the room went spinning round.At the age of thirty-seven she realised she'd neverRide through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair.So she let the phone keep ringing and she sat there softly singingLittle nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair.Her husband, he's off to work and the kids are off to school,And there are, oh, so many ways for her to spend the day.She could clean the house for hours or rearrange the flowersOr run naked through the shady street screaming all the way.At the age of thirty-seven she realised she'd neverRide through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hairSo she let the phone keep ringing as she sat there softly singingPretty nursery rhymes she'd memorised in her daddy's easy chair.The evening sun touched gently on the eyes of Lucy JordanOn the roof top where she climbed when all the laughter grew too loudAnd she bowed and curtsied to the man who reached and offered her his hand,And he led her down to the long white car that waited past the crowd.At the age of thirty-seven she knew she'd found foreverAs she rode along through Paris with the warm wind in her hair”

“Silly little plastic belt, made for a skinny pinny; it could barely tie around her. She managed, though - a tiny white bow. Waiting, she folded her hands and realized how every single time she went by this hospital, the same two thoughts occurred to her: that she'd been born here and that her father's body had been brought here after his suicide. She'd been through some things, but never mind. She straightened her back. Other people had been through things, too.”

“She stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were dark, almost black, filled with pain. She'd let someone do that to her. She'd known all along she felt things too deeply. She became attached. She didn't want a lover who could walk away from her, because she could never do that - love someone completely and survive intact if her left her.”

“She'd assumed she'd be married and have kids by this age, that she would be grooming her own daughter for this, as her friends were doing. She wanted it so much she would dream about it sometimes, and then she would wake up with the skin at her wrists and neck red from the scratchy lace of the wedding gown she'd dreamed of wearing. But she'd never felt anything for the men she'd dated, nothing beyond her own desperation. And her desire to marry wasn't strong enough, would never be strong enough, to allow her to marry a man she didn't love.”

“«She sat at the bow of a pleasure craft a stone's throw away, under the shade of a white parasol, a diligent tourist out to reap all the beauty and charm Copenhagen had to offer. She studied him with a distressed concentration, as if she couldn't quite remember who he was. As if she didn't want to. He looked different. His hair reached down to his nape, and he'd sported a full beard for the past two years. Their eyes met. She bolted upright from the chair. The parasol fell from her hand, clanking against the deck. She stared at him, her face pale, her gaze haunted. He'd never seen her like this, not even on the day he left her. She was stunned, her composure flayed, her vulnerability visible for miles. As her boat glided past him, she picked up her skirts and ran along the port rail, her eyes never leaving his. She stumbled over a line in her path and fell hard. His heart clenched in alarm, but she barely noticed, scrambling to her feet. She kept running until she was at the stern and could not move another inch closer to him (…) Gigi didn't move from her rigid pose at the rail, but she suddenly looked worn down, as if she'd been standing there, in that same spot, for all the eighteen hundred and some days since she'd last seen him. She still loved him. The thought echoed wildly in his head, making him hot and dizzy. She still loved him.»”

“She dug around in her bag, found what she was looking for, and brought the little stuffed dog back to bed with her. Childish, yeah. She didn't care. He was soft and cuddly-unlike Jones-and she had a need for soft and cuddly right now. She'd like to meet a woman who could breeze through a shotgun blast and not need something to hold on to. Even if it was just an old stuffed pup.(...)She swallowed hard,then caught her breath when he opened his eyes, turned his head on the pillow toward her. He searched her face in the dark."Come here," he whispered.When she hesitated, he reached for her. "The dog can come, too.”