"I do."
She pushed her head into my shoulder. "And you still love me?"
I was still mad at her, furious with her, but that wasn't the question. The question was did I love her. And I always loved her.
--From Ann Pathcett's Truth and Beauty
Such friendships are rare. The kind you always love and understand and forgive. The kind you see each other in years at a restaurant and slip into a conversation so easily. A first and singular and irreplaceable kind of friendship.
I pride myself in having one. And one is enough because Lizzy is brilliant and funny and of course, the only person I know who has read almost every Russian author's thick and impossibly long books. The letters and phone calls cover our fourteen-hour distance and although I have not seen her in--I lost count--six years, I know she's always there for me.
I pride myself in having one. And one is enough because Lizzy is brilliant and funny and of course, the only person I know who has read almost every Russian author's thick and impossibly long books. The letters and phone calls cover our fourteen-hour distance and although I have not seen her in--I lost count--six years, I know she's always there for me.
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