When A Man Writes A Romance, The

How Do You Feel?” She Asked, Trying To Fluff His Pillow. “other Than Terrible, I Mean.” He Moved His Head Slightly To The Side. It Seemed To Be A Sickly Interpretation Of A Shrug. “of Course You’re Feeling Terrible,” She Clarified, “but Is There Any Change? More Terrible? Less Terrible?” He Made No Response. “the Same Amount Of Terrible?

He Smiled, And Suddenly She Knew That His Words Were True. Everything Would Be All Right. Maybe Not Today And Maybe Not Tomorrow, But Soon. Tragedy Couldn't Coexist In A World With One Of Colin's Smiles.

When The Dead Body Said, "good Evening," Annabel Had To Face The Grim Conclusion That It Wasn't As Dead As She'd Hoped.

He Said He Loved Me,” She Whispered. Daniel Swallowed, And He Had The Strangest Sensation, Almost A Premonition Of What It Must Like To Be A Parent. Someday, God Willing, He’d Have A Daughter, And That Daughter Would Look Like The Woman Standing In Front Of Him, And If Ever She Looked At Him With That Bewildered Expression, Whispering, “he Said He Loved Me . . .” Nothing Short Of Murder Would Be An Acceptable Response.

Darling," He Said Distractedly,"about The Moon..." "yes?" "i Don't Think It Matters Whether You Want It Or Not." "what Are You Talking About?" "the Moon. I Think It's Yours." Victoria Yawned, Not Bothering To Open Her Eyes. "fine. I'm Glad To Have It." "but--" Robert Shook His Head. He Was Growing Fanciful. The Moon Didn't Belong To His Wife. It Didn't Follow Her, Protect Her. It Certainly Didn't Wink At Anybody. But He Stared Out The Window The Rest Of The Way Home, Just In Case