Catherynne Valente

But Dess wasn’t shining. He was just a dumb tart in someone else’s frock staring down failure like you could ever make failure blink. Failure was here before you and she’ll be here after you and she won’t even notice you go

Only the uncool have the requisite alone time to advance their species.

I should consider meditation to better attune myself to the city’s needs

You will embody a city of millions. You need not be them

ou will embody a city of millions. You need not be them, but know that they are part of you.”

Like everything else, it was a gift. From him to her. The world flows in that direction. Him to her. A river of forever.

Sophia doesn’t ask for praise or credit. Is he the life of the party? Or is she? Such questions! The party is alive, that’s what matters. And whichever way one slices such a rich cake, her company is much in demand. Her social calendar overflows like a cup of wine. Everyone in Arcadia Gardens clamors to have her round. The honor of her presence at their home. The pleasure of her business at their establishment. The profound distress the absence of her witness would cause at this or that small ceremony of life.

Sophia strives to make certain they never have cause to regret her.

Surprises did that to you. Nasty things. Lying in wait. A surprise, even a little one, means a change in the world, and Sophia likes her world as it is. She likes it so much.

He is tall, taller than her husband even, but so skinny, a riot of golden hair tangling up from his skull like a crown of buttercups. His eyes burn into her, staring, staring, looking for something he cannot find in the very cellar of her being. Oh, she hates them! She hates his eyes instantly and forever. They are blue and green and brown all at once, fringed with long lashes, so bright Sophia looks away. An ungovernable shyness cripples her. She does not want to look at the stranger. His gaze peels her open like an unripe green almond. He should not look at her like that.

Sophia feels tears needling the backs of her eyes. Tears, not at his twisting neck, but at the utterly usual movements of this strange man with his strange name. Tears, because the act of sitting on the sofa, when performed by Mr. Semengelof, is more beautiful than roses. Her husband does not move like that. He thuds when he walks. He thuds when he sits. He thuds when he eats and when he drinks and even when he sleeps. Sophia likes his thudding, she always has. When he thuds, the world listens and gets out of his way. That is her whole understanding of men.

Sophia does not think Mr. Semengelof even knows how to thud. He almost seems as though he could fly.