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We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.
Aimee Bender
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Aimee Bender
Age: 55
Born: 1969
Born: June 28
Novelist
Writer
the United States of America
World
Sidewalk
Wished
Dropped
Street
Streets
Hands
Whole
Right
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It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.
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While she cut the mushrooms, she cried more than she had at the grave, the most so far, because she found the saddest thing of all to be the simple truth of her capacity to move on.
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I watched as she added a question mark at the end. Arc, line, space, dot.
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You're the perfect girl', he said, rubbing his chin. 'You expect nothing.
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I didn’t mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.
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The writing I tend to think of as 'good' is good because it's mysterious.
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Many kids, it seemed, would find out that their parents were flawed, messed-up people later in life, and I didn't appreciate getting to know it all so strong and early.
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There's a gift in your lap and it's beautifully wrapped and it's not your birthday. You feel wonderful, you feel like somebody knows you're alive, you feel fear because it could be a bomb, because you think you're that important.
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I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
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It is so often surprising, who rescues you at your lowest moments.
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With my hand in his, I looked at all the apartment buildings with rushes of love, peering in the wide streetside windows that revealed living rooms painted in dark burgandies and matte reds.
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When the light at Vernon turned green, we stepped into the street and George grabbed my hand and the ghosts of our younger selves crossed with us.
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I like birthday cake. It's so symbolic. It's a tempting symbol to load with something more complicated than just 'Happy birthday!' because it's this emblem of childhood and a happy day.
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You try, you seem totally nuts, you go underground.
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I knew if I ate anything of hers again, it would lkely tell me the same message: help me, I am not happy, help me -- like a message in a bottle sent in each meal to the eater, and I got it. I got the message.
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I peeled the skin off a grape in slippery little triangles, and I understood then that I would be undressing every item of food I could because my clothes would be staying on.
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But what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think? Before she knew it was candles, did she think she'd done it herself? With the amazing turns of her hips, and the warmth of the music inside her, did she believe, for even one glorious second, that her passion had arrived?
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The wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
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