“I remember to this day how easily I could grasp what he called his tentative ideas when he talked about the architectural style of the capitalist era, a subject which he said had fascinated him since his own student days, speaking in particular of the compulsive sense of order and the tendency towards monumentalism evident in law courts and penal institutions, railway stations and stock exchanges, opera houses and lunatic asylums, and the dwelling built to rectangular grid patterns for the labor force.”

“the architecture student from number eleven presses his face to the glass and looks at the way the light falls through the water, he thinks about a place where he worked in the spring, an office where they had a stack of empty watercooler bottles against the window, and how he would sit and watch the sun mazing its way through the layers of refraction, the beauty of it, he called it spontaneous maths and he wanted to build architecture like he that, he looks at the row of houses opposite and he pictures them built entirely of plastic and glass, he imagines how people's lives might change if their dwellings shook with endless reflections of light, he does not know if it's possible but he thinks it's a nice idea”

“Everything he said sounded wonderful, but it wasn't true. I was desperately insecure and I did care what people thought. Jackson wasn't really talking about me. He was talking about an idea of me he'd concocted in his head. As soon as he remembered me and my true weaknesses in the clear light of day, he'd be as cruel this time as he had been the last.”

“Good," he said. "We need to talk." Suddenly, I didn't feel so relaxed anymore. Talk? What does he want to talk about? The part where I nearly died? I didn't want to talk about that. Because the fact is, that whole part, the part where I nearly died, well, I nearly died trying to save him. Seriously. I was hoping he hadn't noticed, but I could tell by the look on his face that he totally had. Noticed, I mean. And now he wanted to talk about it. But how could I talk about it? Without letting it slip? The L word, I mean. "You know what?" I said, very fast. "I don't want to talk. Is that okay? I really, really don't want to talk. I am all talked out. Jesse lifted Spike of his lap and put him on the floor. Then he stood up. What was he doing? I wondered. What was he doing? I took a deep breath, and kept talking about not talking. "I'm just--Look," I said as he took a step toward me. "I'm just going to give CeeCee a call and maybe we'll go to the beach or something, because really...I just need a day off." Another step forward. Now he was right in front of me. "Especially," I said, significantly, looking up at him, "from talking. That's especially what I need a day off from. Talking." "Fine," he said. He reached up and cupped my face in both hands. "We don't have to talk." And that's when he kissed me. On the lips.”

“We need to talk.”“I’m just – Look,” I said, as he took a step toward me. “I’m just going to give Cee Cee a call and maybe we’ll go to the beach or something, because I really … I just need a day off.”Another step toward me. Now he was right in front of me.“Especially,” I said significantly, looking up at him, “from talking. That’s what I especially need a day off from. Talking.”“Fine,” he said. He reached up and cupped my face in both his hands. “We don’t have to talk.”And that’s when he kissed me. On the lips.”

“He shrugged his shoulders, like he had no idea what I was talking about. I loved that.”