“So what, you assumed you’d show up before the dance and I’d magically be ready to go? I need warning to get beautiful.”

“I’ve only imagined seeing you again. That you’d come to my home. That I’d run into you on the street. That I’d look up, and you’d be there, and you’d be well . . . and I’d tell you that I love you.”

“If I knew what you’d do, exactly when you knew what you’d do, then I’d either be you or I’d be God. And we both know I’m not you.”

“They [high school students] all seemed quite excited to be there [a formal dance], like they were finally getting a glimpse of this magical new world they assumed was adulthood. As if adults regularly got together at large dances, all dressed up in fancy new clothes.”

“Did I say that she was beautiful? I was wrong. Beauty is too tame a notion; it evokes only faces in magazines. A lovely eloquence, a calming symmetry; none of that describes this woman’s face. So perhaps I should assume I cannot do it justice with words. Suffice it to say that it would break your heart to see her; and it would mend what was broken in the same moment; and you would be twice what you’d been before.”

“That’s it,” Mabel said, getting up. She tossed her napkin on the table. “No. That is not right. I don’t know what you just said, but whatever it was, I’m pretty certain it was pure hokum. I don’t want to dance. I don’t want to hear about your plans for a summer house. I am not your sister. And if I were your sister, I’d have to tell people you’d been adopted as an act of charity. Please, don’t get up.”