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Claim to be Choctaw or Cherokee. Claim to be a princess too.

“I know I am disabled. Technically. But I don’t feel that way.”

You are the only one who knows not to pour water on the flame.

Wake up drenched in sweat, with fatigue that reaches to your marrow.

Ask your mother about babies. Ask her about the baby that died.

Lily hated Ray’s cancer. She couldn’t see it or cure it.

Hurricane Ian was bearing down on us. Jack wanted to stay and ride it out. I was passed out on the floor, the TV on, when Ian made landfall.

We agreed: no hearts, no flowers, just courteous, no-strings sex.

It had always been this way. Mothering, for my mother, was a cameo role.

The solution, she’s discovered, is always to err on the side of caution.

I was free. The first step had been taken, and it was irrevocable.

It’s a small deposit, but I’m putting my faith in reincarnation.

In the story she was a dripping, chocolate-covered vamp.

You’re certain that they’re harmless, benign as a flock of founding fathers.

Take my hand, lead me by heart over the blind stepping-stones to the edge.

Protect your hands. You can always get by if your hands aren’t broken.

If dating taught Cory anything, it was that he needed an ex-wife.

Marie was Indian, and everything Indian required patience.

Children can be seen as worldly things, not as souls with broken mirrors.

I want him to remember me hanging on his crosshairs.

Silence, a weapon of choice, hung between them, cut through the air.

Now only the single syllable that is the beloved, that is the world.

They met on the app in April, shortly after her twenty-ninth birthday.

Oh, how did people do it? How did they find some way to be happy?

The first time she’d touched his body, it had been like going back in time.

Part of my desire to be in London related to its writers.

Those moments are all I want. I want a life of this. He sighs and I sigh.

Jennifer Haigh