So Maybe It Wasn't The Fairy Tale.

He Was Looking At Me, Jsut As I'd Thought He Would Be, But Like Bert's, His Light Was Not What I Expected. No Pity, No Sadness: Nothing Had Changed. I Realized All The Times I'd Felt People Stare At Me, Their Faces Had Been Pictures, Abstracts. None Of Them Were Mirrors, Able To Reflect Back The Expression I Thought One I Wore, The Feelings Only I Felt.

And For One Second, It Was Like I Could Feel The Timing Clicking Together, Finally Pieces Falling Into Place.

I Think As A Writer One Of The Benefits Is That You Can Put Things That You're Interested In Into Your Books. I Always Have Put A Lot Of Food And Restaurants Because I Was A Waitress And I Love To Eat.

The Thing About Wes," Delia Said To Me, Unwrapping Another Package Of Turkey, "is That He Thinks He Can Fix Anything. And If He Can't Fix It, He Can At Least Do Something With The Pieces Of What's Broken.

A Thump Thump Thump Noise That Was So Unfamiliar, And Yet I Couldn't Quite Place It. But I Knew It. It Was - "mmm-hmmm," Monica Murmured, Just As Wes Came View Into The Path. He Was Running, His Pace Quick And Steady. He Was In Shorts, His Shirt Off, Staring Ahead As He Passed. His Back Was Tan And Gleaming With Sweat.