I lost my virginity on a floor with a white shag carpet. When he turned his back, I moved the coffee table over the stain.
Some people dream in fingerprints. They see every touch, every past breath recorded in walls and smooth surfaces. They never sleep well in motel rooms.
It's simple when he tells it: they met, fell in love, got married. The facts recount themselves; the complications between them are impossible to articulate.
On Christmas, John suddenly needs to talk about death. "I killed him," he whispers into an empty room. (Ghosts are things man creates for himself.)
The truth runs away from her tongue a third time, and then it's too late. He's not dead, not remarried, but the moment has passed.
The time they pick for themselves is 1:05 a.m. If they're awake, they find each other and smile. They soon stop pretending it's an accident.
She admits something terrible: "I wanted to hurt him, for what he did to you." Pause. "And you, because of what that did to me."
What he likes best about her is her skin, smooth and forgiving, soft, so different than his but uniquely able to make him feel warm.
She babbles in baby-talk when he's sick, kisses his fevered forehead until he wants to give her children. In reality, he wants her for himself.
She swallows her fear and distrust, for she has no better choice, but Teyla doesn't really believe that people can survive completely surrounded by water.
After the war, Sinclair goes home. He buries himself alternately in Catherine and solitude; in mediocrity. Eleven years later, he still wants to go back.
She sleeps with him to be distracted; he sleeps with her because nothing else is distraction enough. They silently know this isn't a healthy relationship.
"You lied to me," she says, coolly. She values nothing more than the truth. "No," he argues; he never lies to her. She's the exception.
She swears every time that she won't make the same mistake again. In the end, she's tired of lying to herself. That's a mistake, too.
After eighteen years, she forgives him. He did the best that he could. So did she. It scares her that this might always be true.
At five, he tricked himself into believing there's a ghost inside the toaster. He learned his mind is malleable. Years later, he still dislikes toast.
If he was to choose a mission in life, it would be to bring the abacus back into fashion. Math should be accompanied by clack-clack-clack.
She organizes her sins into an itemized list: excusable, minor, cardinal, mortal. Attaching a fake name before slipping the list under the door is "minor."
In your dreams, she's all yours -- no business between you, no others competing for her attention. You sleep late now, and say only, "I'm tired."
Sometimes you wonder about him. A strange feeling coils inside you when you do, whispering fear and the danger of attachment. You find temptation painful.
The sky on this planet is white, brilliantly achromatic, and for a moment, he thinks he's dead. Later, he wants to tell someone (besides Kate).
Their sixth month in Pegasus, they run out of paper. One of the scientists steals a few sheets as museum pieces for her unborn child.
He spends his Saturdays watching trains, waiting for enlightenment to step off from somewhere and come to him. It never does, but he keeps watching.
I think sometimes about a critical junction -- a point where, had I or the earth moved differently, I would be now somewhere else, almost unrecognizable.
His daughter lets him stay on the porch, contemplating grains of sand. He remembers nothing of his life but this: there is always a pattern.