“When I write now, I pretend I'm holding hands with the old me. I try to make sense of all those questions for her...”

“I'm not dating Balthazar. I'm pretend dating him. Which involves some not pretend hand-holding. And maybe some not pretend kissing. But it's all actually pretend, see?I groaned. My explanations were making my head hurt already.”

“If I hold her hand she says, ‘Don’t touch!’If I hold her foot she says ‘Don’t touch!’ But when I hold her waist-beads she pretends not to know.”

“I don't try to make sense of suffering. I try to make sense of life...I try each day to see God's will...I console myself with the old Negro spiritual, 'Sooner will be done the troubles of this world. I'm going home to live with God.”

“If I could only make her fall in love with me. Pretend to be a writer and just fuck her and have her cook for me. I would never have to write I’d just pretend.”

“...I couldn't let go of her hand. For a few moments, I looked at the shape of it, the roundness of her fingers. I realized that her hands gave me a sense of comfort because they were the most familiar part of her to me. Those hands had always been in my sight when I was a child. Those were the hands I held crossing the street, the hands that made me lunch and cooked me dinner, the hands that stroked me when I was feeling sad, the hands on the steering wheel driving me all over town, the hands whose rings I had looked at and played with, turning them around on her finger. I knew then that regardless of how we had fought and cried and how adoption had affected us both, those hands, free of words and emotional baggage, encompassed everything. They were pure love-all the love that she had for me.”