Anyone Can Express Himself Or Herself, But

She Won't Give Him Back His Look.

Honey, No Offense, But Sometimes I Think I Could Shoot You And Watch You Kick.

But I Can Hardly Sit Still. I Keep Fidgeting, Crossing One Leg And Then The Other. I Feel Like I Could Throw Off Sparks, Or Break A Window--maybe Rearrange All The Furniture.

Art Doesn't Have To Do Anything. It Just Has To Be There For The Fierce Pleasure We Take In Doing It.

But He Stays By The Window, Remembering That Life. They Had Laughed. They Had Leaned On Each Other And Laughed Until The Tears Had Come, While Everything Else—the Cold And Where He'd Go In It—was Outside, For A While Anyway.