This is a passion story: my passion, his, ours – yours.

And sometimes men fail, I answered silently. Sometimes they don’t forgive. Sometimes what you see is only the bright surface of something cold and deep.

How things appear is only the thin, papery outer skin of the onion. Of course, when you cut open the onion, your eyes will sting and water, and then you can’t see at all. You’re lucky if you don’t slice your finger.

In your time, politicians win points in the polls for proposing to punish unmarried teenaged mothers like me, not to mention our children.

Ever notice how the more depraved a man is, the more he tries to ruin other people’s fun?

And what is love but a four-letter word for trouble?

I was grateful for the darkness that hid our faces at least, but nothing can hide the voice. It is always naked.

Summer was letting out one long, last, sweet breath before winter began to blast.

So I say, if you are burning, burn. If you can stand it, the shame will burn away and leave you shining, radiant, and righteously shameless.

This is a passion story: my passion, his, ours — yours.