“I didn't forget you. To this day, I have yet to walk through an airport without looking for your face, and every time it snows, I remember what it felt like to kiss you.”

“You cry, girl. You cry all you want, and when you're through and all this pain is nothing but a memory, I will find a way to make you smile. Do you hear me China Brown? That's a promise from me to you.”

“There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good . . .” His voice trailed off in the middle of the sentence.Laura found herself caught in the intensity of his gaze and muttered the end of the rhyme. “. . . She was very, very good, and when she was bad . . .”Gabriel finished what he had started, grinning at his own wit. “. . .She was better.”Laura’s eyebrows arched as she hid a quick smile. “That’s not the way I learned it.”Gabriel picked up his fork and dug back into his salsa-spiced eggs. “If you’d been a boy, you would have.”

“I'm a woman. We mature faster than men, remember?”

“As long as we draw breath, we owe it to the ones we loved and lost to live out our lives without wasting them on regrets.”

“The next day, I am almost afraid. Love? It was more like dragonflies in the sun, 100 degrees at noon, the ends of their abdomens stuck together.I close my eyes when I remember. I hardly knew myself, like something twisting and twisting out of a chrysalis, enormous, without language, all head, all shut eyes, and the humming like madness, the way they writhe away, and do not leave, back, back, away, back. Did I know you? No kiss, no tenderness—more like killing, death-grip holding to life, genitals like violent hands clasped tight barely moving, more like being closed in a great jaw and eaten, and the screaming.I groan to remember it, and when we started to die, then I refuse to remember, the way a drunkard forgets. After, you held my hands extremely hard as my body moved in shudders like the ferry when its axle is loosed past engagement, you kept me sealed exactly against you, our hairlines wet as the arc of a gateway after a cloudburst, you secured me in your arms till I slept - clasped, fragrant, buoyant, that was the morning after love.”

“And what did I think when I was small and why did I forget? And what else will I forget when I grow older? And if you forget is it as if it never happened? Will none of the things you saw or thought or dreamed matter?”