”I’m a sensitive, creative type. I’m going through something.”
“If I come home to you eating a pint of Haagen-Dazs and watching When Harry Met Sally, I’m calling the police.”
“What are they going to do, arrest me for being a cliche?”
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”Who’d live in a house called SHIRLEY?” asked Philip, peering at the brass plate beside the front door.
Honestly, he could be so annoying sometimes. Our old house had sold faster than expected. We had to move out in four weeks. And here he was quibbling over a name plaque.
“Lots of houses had names in the old days,” I said. “If you’re going to call a house anything it might as well be Shirley.”
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”Okay, it seems Weinraub is taking advantage of the fact that you’re a lovely and highly intelligent female who happens to be particularly…fragile.”
“Fragile being code for a drunk.”
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I have thrown things in wishing / cast half in pleasure of the act / half in solemn belief—from “The Baby Slept”
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”But where are the women?”
I should have paid attention.
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The unopened letter perched on the side table like a single wing about to take flight. Katie Vaughn—who at thirty-five went by Kate—wanted to open the letter, but waited. For Kate, the first day of spring held more than blooming daffodils. It was still a day of firsts.
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In my life I have seen views of Earth and the universe from a perspective once known only to God. And yet, I grew up in a time so distant from today that electric can openers were considered high tech. And my family didn’t have one. I have launched into space seven times and ventured into the blackness of the universe on nine spacewalks. From two hundred miles high I have watched lightning pop through the dark clouds stretched across the Amazon, seen the Himalayas reach up to greet me, and looked down at the Indiana hometown from where I once looked up at the stars.
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