Conversationally, we were Fred and Ginger -- spin, slide, shuffle, bend.
Marisa de los SantosTags: friendship love conversation
What’s killing him is the idea that I will die unhappy, in a miserable marriage. He hates that my life isn’t ending on a good note… So I told him that he’s a good man and was the love of my life, both of which are true. I tried to tell him all the things I hadn’t told him before… Mostly, I wanted him to understand the real reason I’d thought our marriage was over. It was over because we forgot to stay in love. Both of us.
Marisa de los SantosI think love is an imperative. It obligates you.
Marisa de los SantosTags: love
I think there are certain people who change the way time moves.
Marisa de los SantosIn my experience, people love what they love. They just do. Or fail to love what they fail to love.
Marisa de los SantosNowadays, I want to be smart, but back then, I'm afraid I wanted to seem smart, too.
Marisa de los SantosPen realized it: Sometimes there is nothing to do but surrender yourself to wonder... You must stop measuring - over and over - the line between loving and being in love. You must offer yourself, whole, to the cobalt starfish (and the orange one and the pale pink one and the biscuit-colored one with the raised, chocolate-brown art deco design) and to the clear, clear water and to the sweep of shining sky and to the silver scattershot of leaping fish (an entire school skipping across the ocean like a stone.)
Marisa de los SantosWe were friends. It was as big a deal as being in love.” She tried to think of a way to make Amelie understand. “It was a revelation, being friends like that. God, it was holy to me. But it wasn’t being in love.
Marisa de los SantosHe wasn’t looking at her, was at such an oblique angle to her that his face was little more than a sliver, but she knew him at once. “It was like reading,” she would try to explain later, and she wasn’t talking about phonics. She didn’t break him into syllables—shoulders, hair, shirt collar, hand, nose, cheekbone—and put him back together again; she didn’t sound him out. He was a language she knew, and it was whole-word recognition: Will.
Marisa de los SantosAs Will stood watching Pen, just before he turned away, his initial astonishment shifted into something quieter. Soon, she will see me; we’ll sit someplace and talk, he thought. He felt like a kid who falls asleep on a long car trip, wakes up, and looks out the window to find that he’s in a new place, or home, and that it’s morning.
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