"It was the face of spring, it was the face of summer, it was the warmness of clover breath. Pomegranate glowed in her lips, and the noon sky in her eyes. To touch her face was that always new experience of opening your window one December morning, early, and putting out your hand to the first white cool powdering of snow that had come, silently, with no announcement, in the night…"
"I would drink her until my vision is blurry and my friends take away my keys."
"And if there’s one thing in this world I’ve ever known for sure, it’s that this girl is gonna crush me like a small bug, leave me so fucking broken there’ll be body bags beneath my eyes from nights I cried so hard the stars died. But I’m like, go ahead. I’m all yours. I would kiss you in the middle of the ocean during a lightning storm, cause I’d rather be left for dead than left to wonder what thunder sounds like."
"We got quiet. The garden was combing her hair and putting on earrings. The house was full of dancing creatures, not male and female but both, two lovers in one body. The books downstairs were reciting their poetry to each other, rubbing together, whispering through the leather covers. Wine was flowing through the water pipes. You had caught my leaping heart in your hand like a fish."
"… because I sometimes have moments of such despair, such despair… Because in those moments I start to think that I will never be capable of beginning to live a real life; because I have already begun to think that I have lost all sense of proportion, all sense of the real and the actual; because, what is more, I have cursed myself; because my nights of fantasy are followed by hideous moments of sobering! And all the time one hears the human crowd swirling and thundering around one in the whirlwind of life, one hears, one sees how people live—that they live in reality, that for them life is not something forbidden, that their lives are not scattered for the winds like dreams or visions but are forever in the process of renewal, forever young, and that no two moments in them are ever the same; while how dreary and monotonous to the point of being vulgar is timorous fantasy, the slave of shadow, of the idea, the slave of the first cloud that covers the sun…"
"'Tell me about Saturday,' I say. 'Tell me.'
Her eyes widen in excitement as if she has anticipated this very question, this chance to expose herself. Like a budding actress speaking her debut lines, she wets her lips with her tongue and draws in a long breath that threatens to inhale the whole room.
‘I danced and danced, toes and heels pecking the earth like birds feeding,’ she answeres. Sandra always speakes like this: poetry at the speed of a subway train.
‘Where was this?’ I ask, watching nothing but her lips.
‘In the rain. I danced between the strips of rain.’
‘This was Saturday?’
‘Are you sure, Sandra? It didn’t rain on Saturday.’
‘It didn’t rain for you, maybe, but it always rains for me. The sky shatters and rains shards of glass.’
‘That sounds very painful.’
‘No, it sounds beautiful.’"