“I want to talk to him.I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her.Nothing, however, exits my mouth. How well do we really let ourselves know each other?There's a long quietness until I finally break it open. It reminds me of someone breaking bread and handing it out. In my case, I hand out a question to my friend.”

“I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her.”

“I open my mouth. I want o say: I'm breaking, and i need someone to hold me together.But no sound comes out.”

“Natalie said, “That detective in charge of the case: is he your Jake?”My mouth dried. The words felt arid and dusty as I forced them out. “Who told you his name?” Like I had to ask.“Lisa pointed him out on television the other night, and I recognized him as one of the cops who was in here the other day.”I opened my mouth, and then shut it. Jake had to know he was fighting a rearguard action. And I was through lying to my own friends and family. “Yeah,” I said. “We used to be friends. A long time ago. He’s married now.”“Bastard,” she said.I shook my head. “Not really. He never lied to me. I just didn’t ask the questions I didn’t want to know the answers to.”

“He clung to her more tightly, knotting his hands in her hair, trying to tell her, with the press of his mouth on hers, all the things he could never say out loud: I love you; I love you and I don’t care that you’re my sister; don’t be with him, don’t want him, don’t go with him. Be with me. Want me. Stay with me.I don’t know how to be without you.”

“My husband and I see each other only on weekends, and generally get along well. We're like good friends, life partners able to spend some pleasant time together. We talk about all sorts of things, and we trust each other implicitly. Where and how he has a sex life I don't know,and I don't really care. We never make love, though -- never even touch each other. I feel bad about it, but I don't want to touch him. I just don't want to.”