Every Year, When You're A Child, You

Always Remember That When A Man Goes Out Of The Room, He Leaves Everything In It Behind. When A Woman Goes Out She Carries Everything That Happened In The Room Along With Her.

That's Something I Think Is Growing On Me As I Get Older: Happy Endings.

As A Matter Of Fact She Does Not Know To This Day If Those Words Were Spoken, Or If He Only Caught Her, Wound His Arms Around Her, Held Her So Tightly, With Such Continual, Changing Pressures That It Seemed More Than Two Arms Were Needed, That She Was Surrounded By Him, His Body Strong And Light, Demanding And Renouncing All At Once, As If He Was Telling Her She Was Wrong To Give Up On Him, Everything Was Possible, But Then Again That She Was Not Wrong, He Meant To Stam Himself On Her And Go.

What If People Really Did That - Sent Their Love Through The Mail To Get Rid Of It? What Would It Be That They Sent? A Box Of Chocolates With Centers Like The Yolks Of Turkey Eggs. A Mud Doll With Hollow Eye Sockets. A Heap Of Roses Slightly More Fragrant Than Rotten. A Package Wrapped In Bloody Newspaper That Nobody Would Want To Open.

When I Told Him On The Phone That After All You And I Would Not Be Getting Married, He Said "oh-oh. Do You Think You'll Ever Manage To Get Another One?" If I'd Objected To His Saying That He Would Naturally Have Said It Was A Joke. And It Was A Joke. I Have Not Managed To Get Another One But Perhaps Have Not Been In The Best Condition To Try.