A fire needs three things: a dry bed, fuel, and room to breathe.

He went on, but I tuned him out. I made eye contact and nodded occasionally, but I didn’t hear what he was saying. I had heard it all before. Even men who should’ve known better–overeducated progressive types who probably considered themselves feminists–had no compunction explaining things to me.

When I let go of my own work, my own priorities, I lost the qualities he had been attracted to in the first place. That's how he put it. He loved the woman I was before I was in love with him.

We do not last, she thinks. In the end, only the stories survive.

The woman seems ready to be pleased with the world.