I could smell garlic, butter, and wine - the world's most delicious flavor combination. It made me feel warm, like the first few sips of wine always do.

Butter yo shit.

I sighed, looking down at the book in my hands. The Years. I rested my elbow against the arm of the couch and cracked the spine. It had the feel of a book that hadn't been touched in decades, creaking, as if to say ahhh.

She plucked the blossoms from the bag and arranged them, one by one, in the water glass on her dressing table.
"They'll never keep," I said. "They're [hibiscus] a terrible cutting flower. They'll wilt by morning."
"I know," she said." But don't they look so pretty right now, just as they are?"
I nodded. I wished I could see the beauty in the moment the way Kitty did. It was a gift.

I wonder if there is a dark side to every great love story. With great love comes great hurt. I wonder if it is inevitable.

What is childhood without stories? And how will children fall in love with stories without bookstores? You can't get that from a computer.