“I don’t know if you have had the same experience, but the snag I always come up against when I’m telling a story is this dashed difficult problem of where to begin it.”

“Telling a story ain’t hard,” Lettie had said. “All you need is a beginning, middle, and end.”But that was the problem. I was all middle. I’d always been between the last place and the next. How was I supposed to come up with a story for Sister Redempta or even a “Remember when…” to reminisce on with somebody else?”

“I would like to believe this is a story I’m telling. I need to believe it. I must believe it. Those who can believe that such stories are only stories have a better chance. If it’s a story I’m telling, then I have control over the ending. Then there will be an ending, to the story, and real life will come after it. I can pick up where I left off.”

“See—this is the problem. You don’t even get where this is going. You can’t just ask me to come in, or kiss me, or tell me you want to know what smoking pot feels like. When I’m close to you I feel crazy, okay? When you say my name I feel crazy. It’s not…the right thing for you. I don’t think I can just…be your friend.”

“You really know how to screw up a perfect night, don’t you?”“You thought it was perfect, huh? Does that mean you had a good time?”“I always do when I’m with you.”

“But I'll admit I found this difficult. To Dad, I could tell, the story was over, but part of my problem as it relates to survival is that I have a problem recognizing endings - the right point to turn away.”