But then you hear that he can't hear you, you see that he can't see you. You are not here--and you haven't even died yet. You see yourself through his eyes, as The Generic Woman, the skirted symbol on the ladies' room door.

Even now, he is every blue blazer getting into cab, every runner along the river,every motorcycle coming and going.

You will say good-bye for all the right reasons. You're tired of living in wait for his apocalypse. You have your own fight on your hands, and though it's no bigger or more noble than his, it will require all of your energy.It's you who has to hold on to earth. You have to tighten your grip -- which means letting go of him.

You smell like a bar," he said.I thought, You smell like a library. But I wanted to have sex right then, so I said, "You smell like a poem.

Finally, I asked how you got a boy to like you back. She said, 'Just be yourself,' as though I had any idea who that might be.

You can feel like he wants to own you,-not like an object but like a good dream he wants to keep having.

You don't see him again. Sometimes you worry that he loved you better than any man ever has or will--even if it had nothing to do with you. Even now, he is every blue blazer getting into a cab, every runner along the river, every motorcycle coming and going.

I guess love is the real suspension of disbelief.