Book: Bed. Page 3

What it means to "work Union"?
Find each other's time. To find it, in spite of all employment. To talk to each other. And not only about the mortgage on the house, a new car or choosing a school for children. The main thing - to talk. And with enthusiasm. Her to go with him to a football match, although she doesn't like football, and rooting for his team, even if she has no clue what it's called. Him - to read aloud a passage from her favorite book (even if it's the same, terrible, in his opinion, the book Vishnevsky), sitting near the bathtub where splashing she. Such simple, ordinary things...

To keep the knowledge only for themselves - a sign of arrogance.

Did you know that when you're unhappy, you become better as a person?

Love is just unwieldy irritation, manic obsession, occupying all time and all space. Though it nests in the brain, but fills the main body. Love, if ever appears, it appears later consumes one differently. This is not a momentary passion. She looks to the future.

Don't know whether it is possible to capture the moment when love begins. Not what they love, and love.

On paper. In envelopes, the edges of which moistened my saliva, glued crookedly brand, which had to stand in line at the post office, with a normal address, which includes street and number, not with the idiotic name of a server. It will be real letters, which in a fit of tenderness, can touch their lips, and in a fit of anger to tear them to shreds in a terrible secret, hurriedly to hide from everyone in a locked metal box in the basement or carry with them and refer to them when you overcome sadness and slipping hope. The real letters, which in extreme cases can simply be burned. And if you don't burn, then many years later to open them again. After all, old letters, there is one undeniable advantage: they do not have to answer.

... the correct answer is "I will not say because I don't remember any important touching another woman besides you."

He even stripped me like he pulled out his violin case. Reverently, solemnly. As violinist caresses his instrument. Stroking fingers old, noble wood, brushing away some invisible and only his one visible speck of dust. Then he looks at her. And this view is, perhaps, the most beautiful. So he looked at me, naked as on his violin in front of a big and important concert.

For men the end of love - it's just the end of love. For women it is often the end of life.