8 Quotes by Dominique Wilson

He spent the next hours watching her sleep, taking in every detail of her face, of her body. The way the soft glow of the bedside lamp cast shadows on her cheeks. The way her chest rose and fell with each breath. And when the first light of dawn finally showed through the gap in the curtains he quietly dressed and turned off the bedside lamp, and left the room, not daring to look back.

She gently bit his bottom lip, his ear. Worked her way down his body until she reached the inside of his thigh, then bit hard, breaking the skin, drawing blood. "My mark," she said, looking up at him. "Now you'll go back to your wife with my mark.

He didn't know what he was anymore – not truly Chinese, for he had spent too long in the West, adopted too many Western ideas, but neither did he feel truly Westernised. There had been times when he had thought himself so, but a glimpse at his reflection quickly showed him the impossibility of such thoughts. No, rather, he felt suspended between two worlds, never to truly belong to either. The Yellow Papers

She kept hoping something would change, but she knew she'd lost him to a world she could never be part of. So instead she pretended. Pretended to be strong. Pretended everything was alright. Pretended for Michael, for herself, but most of all for Willow. Because Willow loved Michael, and he, her – that much was obvious.

She remembered the days when they'd been each other's everything, when just being together was enough. When she believed their love could conquer the world. How long had it been since Michael had said her name in that special way, when they'd talked all night about their dreams and their future?

She kept hoping something would change, but she knew she'd lost him to a world she could never be part of. So instead she pretended.Pretended to be strong.Pretended everything was alright.Pretended for Michael, for herself, but most of all for Willow. Because Willow loved Michael, and he, her – that much was obvious

So why had he come? He'd said he'd had no choice, but for centuries men had chopped off their own limbs, faked insanity, gone into hiding or to prison rather than to war. Was there some dark flaw in his psyche? Did he have some perverse need to destroy? To kill?

Finally, only her and Benji and the solitude she craved. But with solitude came feelings. Anger. Hovering between life and death. Wanting one, then the other. Hating Michael. Grieving for him because she'd loved him so. But most of all grieving for Willow until the pain became so great that she welcomed the numbness back as if a long-lost lover.