"It's Karen," she says hopelessly in the middle of his doorway like he wouldn't know her a thousand other ways. The whiff of perfume on her, Viktor & Rolf Flowerbomb trapped underneath a thick smear of booze, or the sound of her shoes on the hard tile floor. She's drunk already; her breathing is faint and thready. Her face is too hot.
Justin lies to Alex every day.
Balls and chains are for pens at the bank, and he's never seen a pen that looked like it could survive a level three nuclear holocaust.
Sui Zhou must rise eventually, of course.
Raleigh knows he likes bottoming.
Cycles of love and loss and understanding.
Eve has always been older and wiser.
Better safe than close. A phrase Alleria repeated to herself so many times over their lost years that it has become some strange combination of vow and hymn.
Luke's intentions toward his nephew have been misinterpreted, and maybe this is a mercy.