Sweater Weather Quotes

I'd been making desicions for days. I picked out the dress Bailey would wear forever- a black slinky one- innapropriate- that she loved. I chose a sweater to go over it, earrings, bracelet, necklace, her most beloved strappy sandals. I collected her makeup to give to the funeral director with a recent photo- I thought it would be me that would dress her; I didn't think a strange man should see her naked touch her body shave her legs apply her lipstick but that's what happened all the same. I helped Gram pick out the casket, the plot at the cemetery. I changed a few lines in the obituary that Big composed. I wrote on a piece of paper what I thought should go on the headstone. I did all this without uttering a word. Not one word, for days, until I saw Bailey before the funeral and lost my mind. I hadn't realized that when people say so-and-so snapped that's what actually happens- I started shaking her- I thought I could wake her up and get her the hell out of that box. When she didn't wake, I screamed: Talk to me. Big swooped me up in his arms, carried me out of the room, the church, into the slamming rain, and down to the creek where we sobbed together under the black coat he held over our heads to protect us from the weather.

The next morning was grey and much more typical of early autumn. All I wanted to do was cocoon myself in layers of sweaters and stay in my room.

Silence guides the mind...

Maybe it’s not too much. Maybe you’ve just grown used to not enough.

The time of dangling insects arrived. White houses with caterpillars dangling from the eaves. White stones in driveways. You can walk at night down the middle of the street and hear women talking on the telephone. Warmer weather produces voices in the dark. They are talking about their adolescent sons. How big, how fast. The sons are almost frightening. The quantities they eat. The way they loom in doorways. These are the days that are full of wormy bugs. They are in the grass, stuck to the siding, hanging in the hair, hanging from the trees and eaves, stuck to the window screens. The women talk long-distance to grandparents of growing boys. They share the Trimline phone, beamish old folks in hand-knit sweaters on fixed incomes. What happens to them when the commercial ends?

Fictional men are always better than the real ones. Always. Probably because they’re written by women.

Yeah – Sure I remember Matter of fact it was just last September She still calls it the fall to remember Little Heather when it all came together You remember the first time you met her? She cried when it rained and blamed the weather But inside she strained with suicide letters The kind of cold you couldn’t warm with a sweater Hardly lasted past December She said she was headed down to defeat That’s the last you’d seen and never had dreamed That the same little Heather – It’s who you saw last week In an instant you couldn’t have missed her gleam As she listened she looked like a distant queen With a difference, there for all to see She found a different – A different kind of free

I ended up moving one of the armchairs in my living room up against the wall so I could sit and read and still be close enough to hear her.

How could it be winter without snow?I appreciated every season, but winter was my favorite.I loved when it was time to pull out my thick sweaters.I loved the smell of a wood fire.I loved skiing and snow boarding and sledding, when i could find the time-although time was in a short supply when school was in session.I even enjoyed the cold, wintry weather, it was great for snuggling.

Imagine a morning in late November. A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago. Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town. A great black stove is its main feature; but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it. Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar. A woman with shorn white hair is standing at the kitchen window. She is wearing tennis shoes and a shapeless gray sweater over a summery calico dress. She is small and sprightly, like a bantam hen; but, due to a long youthful illness, her shoulders are pitifully hunched. Her face is remarkable—not unlike Lincoln’s, craggy like that, and tinted by sun and wind; but it is delicate, too, finely boned, and her eyes are sherry-colored and timid. “Oh my,” she exclaims, her breath smoking the windowpane, “it’s fruitcake weather!

That was actually why I was standing outside Parker’s apartment door when she flung it open last night. I came back because I didn’t want to let the night end without kissing her. Or asking her if she wanted me to kiss her for real.

I notice there’s a fourth cup, one she didn’t gesture to. “And what’s that one?” “That’s a chai latte,” Parker says. “For me.” “And what if chai lattes are my signature drink?” I deadpan. Without any hesitation, Parker pushes the cup my way. “Then it’s yours.

I met him at the airport. He wore a long dark-gray pea coat, charcoal slacks, a cashmere sweater, and his usual scowl. He was standing outside, the freezing New York weather staining his cheekbones a dark shade of pink while he puffed on a blunt. On the sidewalk of the airport.

head in the clouds, but my gravity's centered

my dear, it never rains, but it pours

Finally, on a windswept, befogged afternoon, the sort in which all of Delhi is wearing a sweater of atmospheric dirt, he went over with the driver to see the Khuranas.

I’m steady. I’m focused. No one controls me but me.

His arms are strong around me, and I hope he never, ever lets me go. We’ll have to learn how to walk like this.

Her mantra is, “Come as you are, and there will be food.

Logan is my business,” she says. “Not yours.

You are the very best fake boyfriend I’ve ever had,” she says softly.

How are you? I'm shattered, thanks, how are you? I walk aimlessly through the rooms of my house, what have you been up to? I have woken up in the middle of the last 240 nights in a heart-pounding sweat, what's new with you? I sometimes wish I would never wake up, have you been on vacation this year? I ache for the arms of my sweetheart to hold me tight, how's your family? I feel barren and useless and creepy and mundane, seen any good movies lately? I'm terrified that I'll feel this way forever, I like that sweater you're wearing. I keep seeing his body on the hospital gurney, don't you love this weather. My broken heart is in my throat, let's do lunch. I'm so completely and utterly tired of being sad, thanks, how are you?

Did you wear my jersey?” I ask. I can’t not ask. And yeah, maybe it makes me a brute or an egomaniac or whatever. But I have to know. Parker’s smile is soft. “Of course. I’ve only ever worn your jersey, Logan.

He caught Sirius staring at him as they exited into a waiting area. Sirius smiled at him, warm and soft. It filled Remus up to the brim. I love you. It had been playing like a record on the plane, even as he slept. He dreamed in I love you’s, now, he lived and walked in them. He needed to say it.

I don’t want her to think she only looks beautiful when dressed up or something. Because the truth is, Parker looks every bit as beautiful walking around the Summit in her work clothes or or in leggings and a pair of skates. I actually prefer her in skates. Maybe even to the pink dress she’s wearing now.

Are you going to let me take you out to dinner now?” “Depends,” Remus laughed. “Can I reach across the table and wipe pizza grease off your lip as much as I want?” That made Sirius laugh loudly, and he felt Remus’ own laugh against his chest. “As long as I…” Sirius reached for Remus’ hand and their palms slotted together. He watched their fingers lace. “Can hold your hand.

I wanted to say a certain thing to a certain man, a certain true thing that had crept into my head. I opened my head, at the place provided, and proceeded to pronounce the true thing that lay languishing there—that is, proceeded to propel that trueness, that felicitous trularity, from its place inside my head out into world life. The certain man stood waiting to receive it. His face reflected an eager accepting-ness. Everything was right. I propelled, using my mind, my mouth, all my muscles. I propelled. I propelled and propelled. I felt trularity inside my head moving slowly through the passage provided (stained like the caves of Lascaux with garlic, antihistamines, Berloiz, a history, a history) toward its debut on the world stage. Past my teeth, with their little brown sweaters knitted of gin and cigar smoke, toward its leap to critical scrutiny. Past my lips, with their tendency to flake away in cold weather—

Seeing Myself in a Season Burgundy sweaters Handwritten letters If I were a season I would be Fall Brown curly hair playing truth or dare Adventures and change Feelings all strange If I were a season I would be Fall Messy notebooks filled with All of my secrets Looking out the windows Like Mother Earth I'd let out a breath and The trees would shake My blood would be an apricot color I'd hide in the forest Covered with bright yellow leaves Branched out above two lovers Because if I were a season I would be Fall

Let me see your arm, please, Lenzi,” Alden requested after Spook leapt onto the front passenger seat. I held it out, and he pushed up the sleeve of my sweater. He winced. “That’s a lot of threat to fit on one tiny arm. Good thing Smith writes small.” “If that’s a joke, it’s not funny. Tell me it doesn’t need stitches.” I groaned. “Nope. Just antiseptic, holy water, and time to heal.” Maddi looked over Alden’s shoulder. “Aw, that’s nothing. Remember the time he—” Alden cut her off with a glare. “Nice weather we’re having,” Maddi said as she strode to her truck.

Goggles but no bathing suit?" she asked. Daniel blushed. "I guess that was stupid. But I was in a hurry, only thinking about what you would need to get the halo." He drove the paddle back into the water, propelling them more quickly than a speedboat. "You can swim in your underwear, right?" Now Luce blushed. Under normal circumstances, the question might have seemed thrilling, something they both would have giggled at. Not these nine days. She nodded. Eight days now. Daniel was deadly serious. Luce just swallowed hard and said, "Of course." The pair of green-gray spires grew larger, more detailed, and then they were upon them. They were tall and conical, made of rusted slats of copper. They had once been capped by small teardrop-shaped copper flags sculpted to look like they were rippling in the wind, but one weathered flag was pocked with holes, and the other had broken off completely. In the open water, the spires' protrusion was bizarre, suggesting a cavernous cathedral of the deep. Luce wondered how long ago the church had sunk, how deep it sat below. The thought of diving down there in ridiculous goggles and mom-bought underwear made her shudder. "This church must be huge," she said. She meant I don't think I can do this. I can't breathe underwater. How are we going to find one small halo sunk in the middle of the sea? "I can take you down as far as the chapel itself, but only that far. So long as you hold on to my hand." Daniel extended a warm hand to help Luce stand up in the gondola. "Breathing will not be a problem. But the church will still be sanctified, which means I'll need you to find the halo and bring it out to me." Daniel yanked his T-shirt off over his head, dropping it to the bench of the gondola. He stepped out of his pants quickly, perfectly balanced on the boat, then kicked off his tennis shoes. Luce watched, feeling something stir inside her, until she realized she was supposed to be stripping down, too. She kicked off her boots, tugged off her socks, stepped out of her jeans as modestly as she could. Daniel held her hand to help her balance; he was watching her but not the way she would have expected. He was worried about her, the goose bumps rising on her skin. He rubbed her arms when she slipped off he sweater and stood freezing in her sensible underwear n the gondola in the middle of the Venetian lagoon. Again she shivered, cold and fear an indecipherable mass inside her. But her voice sounded brave when she tugged the goggles, which pinched, down over her eyes and said, "Okay, let's swim." They held hands, just like they had the last time they'd swum together at Sword & Cross. As their feet lifted off the varnished floor of the gondola, Daniel's hand tugged her upward, higher than she ever could have jumped herself-and then they dove. Her body broke the surface of the sea, which wasn't as cold as she'd expected. In fact, the closer she swam beside Daniel, the warmer the wake around them grew. He was glowing.

... and I knew what I wanted: I would settle in a hill station and write my novel. I had visions of myself at a table on a large veranda, my notes spread out in front of me next to a steaming cup of tea. Green hills heavy with mists would lie at my feet and the shrill cries of monkeys would fill my ears. The weather would be just tight, requiring a light sweater mornings and evenings, and something short-sleeved midday. Thus set up, pen in hand, for the sake of greater truth, I would turn Portugal into a fiction. That's what fiction is about, isn't it, the selective transforming the reality? The twisting of it to bring out its essence? What need did I have to go to Portugal?

What does one wear to a ranch early in the morning? I wondered. I was stumped. I had enough good sense, thank God, to know my spiked black boots--the same boots I’d worn on basically every date with Marlboro Man thus far--were out of the question. I wouldn’t want them to get dirty, and besides that, people might look at me funny. I had a good selection of jeans, yes, but would I go for the dark, straight-leg Anne Kleins? Or the faded, boot-cut Gaps with contrast stitching? And what on earth would I wear on top? This could get dicey. I had a couple of nice, wholesome sweater sets, but the weather was turning warmer and the style didn’t exactly scream “ranch” to me. Then there was the long, flax-colored linen tunic from Banana Republic--one I loved to pair with a chunky turquoise necklace and sandals. But that was more Texas Evening Barbecue than Oklahoma Early-Morning Cattle Gathering. Then there were the myriad wild prints with sparkles and stones and other obnoxious adornments. But the last thing I wanted to do was spook the cattle and cause a stampede. I’d seen it happen in City Slickers when Billy Crystal fired up his cordless coffee grinder, and the results weren’t the least bit pretty. I considered cancelling. I had absolutely nothing to wear. Every pair of shoes I owned was black, except for a bright yellow pair of pumps I’d bought on a whim in Westwood one California day. Those wouldn’t exactly work, either. And I didn’t own a single shirt that wouldn’t loudly broadcast *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* I wanted to crawl under my covers and hide.

Washington, D.C. is so confusing in the spring. The days grow increasingly hot and humid, but the nights hold on to winter for as long as possible. On some days the grass is still frosted over in the mornings, stiff and crunchy, even if it wilts before the first class starts. If you are not careful you get caught in the weather's nostalgia and at night, a windbreaker or a sweater isn't enough.

Taylor met Fitz in the parking lot of the Criminal Justice Center. Clouds scudded across the graying sky. Despite the beauty of spring in Nashville, the weather was wholly schizophrenic. Sunny one minute, stormy the next. She took off her sunglasses and slipped one temple into her sweater collar. “Yo,

Parker,” he says in a warning tone that still makes me want to cower. Even if now, I don’t. My father isn’t a cruel man. Just overbearing and demanding, running our household like a business, doling out commands and expecting our immediate compliance.

Tasha, my friend. You have become the one person I can count on to be honest with me here in the states. You support me without any hidden motives. You have made me laugh more than I thought I could. Will you do me the honor of being my wife—until Stuart do us part?

You’ve known him, what? A week? Don’t tell me you’re considering this.” “Okay. I won’t tell you I’m considering this.

(Because let’s face it—all teenage boys exist on a sliding scale of stupidity.)

The truth is—I don’t hate dancing. I rarely dance, but only because that usually means being somewhere public. And being somewhere public means people are watching me, maybe even filming me. It’s hard to let go and enjoy when that’s on my mind.

But I realize safe isn’t something I usually feel. The mere idea creates a vacuum of longing inside my chest, like some black hole yawning and waiting to be filled.

me, “if a person is thoughtful, that sticks. Doesn’t that matter more? Just because someone is good at being sappy or thinking up romantic gestures, that doesn’t mean they’re worthy of your love.” She levels my gaze. “And just because they aren’t good at those things doesn’t mean they aren’t.

And there’s nothing sisterly about how I feel now, standing this close to her.

I gave Aaron your number. The one he had must have been wrong. He said it went to some business.” It sure did: Franco’s Birthday Clowns. Because after the dinner with my parents and the Wagners, that’s the number I gave him.

because anyone could

Thank you, Target, for depressing us by stocking your store with adorable jackets, sweaters, and boots in August even though it’s still a hundred degrees outside and won’t even dip into the seventies until November. This seasonal tragedy is not your fault, but we don’t need cute knit legwarmers in September. We still need a swimsuit section. Please download a weather app and send it to your buyers. Sincerely, Every Fall-Loving Texan Crying in Her Tank Top at Halloween.

A flustered photographer in the great Eurotrash tradition hurried over to their perch. He had a goatee and spiky blond hair like Sandy Duncan on an off day. Bathing did not appear to be a priority here. He sighed repeatedly, making sure all in the vicinity knew that he was both important and being put out. “Where is Brenda?” he whined. “Right here.” Myron swiveled toward a voice like warm honey on Sunday pancakes. With her long, purposeful stride—not the shy-girl walk of the too-tall or the nasty strut of a model—Brenda Slaughter swept into the room like a radar-tracked weather system. She was very tall, over six feet for sure, with skin the color of Myron’s Starbucks Mocha Java with a hefty splash of skim milk. She wore faded jeans that hugged deliciously but without obscenity and a ski sweater that made you think of cuddling inside a snow-covered log cabin. Myron

I was going to say something I meant to tell you earlier. You look beautiful, Pete.

Thoughtful. Again. Still

I get it now. I understand why someone would be a fool for love. That whole 'then you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest if your life to start as soon as possible' thing makes sense to me now

I'm too picky. Maybe she doesn't realize it, but that's not the reason I'm holding out for someone as hopelessly romantic as me -not entirely. The main reason is I haven't met anyone who makes me feel the way Owen does. Er, did. Continues to do.

Playlist Theme Song: Chris Isaak- Wicked Game (Jessie Villa Cover) Ed Sheeran- Bad Habits Billie Eilish- NDA Billie Eilish- idontwannabeyouanymore Sasha Sloan- Runaway The Neighbourhood- Sweater Weather Croosh (feat. IV)- Lost Seether- Words as Weapons Hemming- Hard on Myself OneRepublic (feat. Timbaland)- Apologize Righteous Vendetta- A Way Out Transviolet- Under Lana Del Rey- Born to Die nothing,nowhere- rejecter Emawk (feat. solace)- Pilot MAALA- Better Life Frank Ocean- Lost Glass Animals- Heat Waves  Johnny Rain- Harveston Lake Seether (feat. Amy Lee)- Broken KALLITECHNIS- Synergy

I didn’t have a specific place where my Perfect Day would occur. I just knew it would be somewhere that it got cold. I wanted to be wearing a cozy sweater and warm jacket. It didn’t need to be freezing, but I imagined the weather would be chilly enough to make my cheeks red. I’d be in a small town. The kind of town where people knew you. Where you’d walk past a store and the owner would pop their head out the door trying to lure you inside to see the latest jewelry they got in stock, or to try a new recipe they were testing. At some point, I’d get a hot chocolate with lots of marshmallows, using the heat from the cup to keep my hands warm. I’d walk down a street lined with twinkly lights and garlands draped between lampposts. Everyone I walked past would say hello. When it got just cold enough, that’s when I’d walk past the bookshop. It would smell like cider inside and sure enough, there would be a little beverage cart near the door with cups and a cheery sign that would read help yourself. I’d switch out my hot chocolate for a cider and wander around the store. It would be large but full of books and leather chairs and maybe even a cat lounging on some shelves. Every book I wanted to buy would be in stock and I’d find a few more that I hadn’t even known I wanted. But the thing that made it the Perfect Day would be that when I went to check out, the salesperson would recognize me. It’s you, they’d say, and then point to a shelf where my book was prominently displayed. Would you mind signing some copies? they’d ask. We’re big fans of your work. That, I think, would truly be the Perfect Day.

I do have an idea,” I tell him. “But it might be stupid.” “In love, there’s no such thing,” he says in a sing-songy voice. I step out of the ring. “Oh, we’re done?” “Yeah, I don’t fight girls.

That soulmate I’ve been looking for? I couldn’t find her because I already had her.

Back in the day, she had the singular ability to make me smile, something I rarely had reason to do. She was always overflowing with energy and big ideas, like some kind of fiery woodland sprite fueled by straight espresso.

But then I remember how he was in the conference room earlier. Hard. Angry. Dismissive.

I realize I live in a city with a Jewish population of less than two percent, but the assumption that everyone celebrates Christmas has never not rubbed at me like the softest sweater’s sharp-edged tag. This time of year, it’s nearly constant. I’ve been the only person ever not wearing a Santa hat during a broadcast, and our social media blew up with accusations that I hated America.

Now that the weather had turned more chill, he could cheerfully—or what passed as cheerfully in Nate-adjusted terms—pile on oversized sweaters and baggy cords and scarves until he was a moving pile of natural and synthetic fibers.

No—my crush on hockey’s beautiful bad boy began on a typical Tuesday night fifteen years ago when he shared a half-eaten chocolate chip cookie with me and told my brother to stop being a jerk.

She was always overflowing with energy and big ideas, like some kind of fiery woodland sprite fueled by straight espresso.

My parents did a lot of things right, but they didn’t always talk to me like my thoughts were important, especially since they were so frequently different from their own. Josh got lucky. He loves hockey as much as they do, so his opinions always mattered. But mine? Not so much.

She laughs then, which was my goal, and I catch a glimpse of the girl I remember. If Parker wasn’t laughing, she was smiling. Always. She was a compact ball of sunshine who drove away the constant storm cloud I lived under. For a while.

No thanks! I’ll take my beef ramen along with my independence, thank you very much.

Let’s normalize practical romance instead of holding guys to an impossible, unrealistic standard. Nobody is going to check all those boxes, no matter what your romance novels say.

C'était un baiser assez incroyable ma chérie.” “Hmmm? Translation please?” “No. I cannot translate that for you.

Men always want to be a woman's first love … What [we women] like is to be a man's last romance. ~ Oscar Wilde

He already assumes my French arrogance. I would say confidence is not arrogance if it’s factual. I’m not one to say French men are superior. What I will say is we are steeped in a culture devoted to cherishing women, appreciating them, and seducing them. We aren’t known for this worldwide for nothing. We have earned our reputation. I’ll be the first to admit some Frenchmen are more seductive than romantic, especially in our larger municipalities where the men can be downright brutish in their directness. But nonetheless, we Frenchmen know romance and we know it well enough to write a book—or twenty-two, my current number of published titles. That is, if a Frenchman were able to write well, which, some can, and some, sadly cannot.

Stop saying that marriage is “just a piece of paper.” … so is money, but you still get up every day and work hard for it.

It is a risk to love. What if it doesn’t work out? Ah. But what if it does? ~ Peter McWilliams

Because you’re authentic, Hadley. Stammering is normal when you’re flustered.

Falling in love can be surprising, unexpected, even scary. It’s like standing in line for a roller coaster and then stepping on. Once you’ve buckled in, there’s no turning back from the thrill and rush of it all.

This town has. . .uh. . .never been very high on me, Captain,” I tell him, and it’s hard to get the words out without sounding angry. His face twitches. “I know.” He does? “And you know what they say about opinions,” he adds. “Everybody’s got ‘em and they all stink.

My customers mean well, but by the time the interview rolls around and Lindsay shows up, I want to crawl into a hole and stay hidden until hell freezes over or Leonardo DiCaprio dates someone his own age, whichever comes first. Probably the hell thing.

Those legs of yours,” Colton murmured, close enough to drag a finger across both thighs in turn. Memphis shivered at the unexpected tenderness of his lover’s touch, every inch of his body flexing in the wake of those delicate fingertips. “They won’t stop fidgeting. And these hands…” He likewise drizzled his fingertips along the tops of Memphis’ digits. “They’re white-knuckled, Big Boy.

Peggy is all Rachel Lynde from Anne of Green Gables. She’s blunt and assuming and in everybody’s business.

Listen. I know it sounds crazy. But this stuff works, Larrabee,” Pearson says. “It saved my marriage.

Reagan comes up beside me and follows my gaze. “You hate to see him go, but you love to watch him walk away.” I slowly turn toward her. “Are you finished?” “I’ve never seen you so flustered, Emmy.” She grins. “I’m just getting started.

Ooh, what about making you look like a 1950’s pinup girl? Because I actually think you could rock a red lip.” “You aren’t very sympathetic,” I say. “Sorry,” she says. “I do feel sorry that you keep getting thrown together with my brother. I wonder if his flavor of the month will get jealous by all this attention on you two.

I gave Aaron your number. The one he had must have been wrong. He said it went to some business.” It sure did: Franco’s Birthday Clowns. Because after the dinner with my parents and the Wagners, that’s the number I gave him. It’s what Aaron deserves. Clowns.

That I don’t want to fake date her as some move for my career. I want to really date her because I really want to.

You need to come with me,” the firefighter shouts. “Now!” To the ends of the earth, I think, because I’m convinced that this man is not only my savior, he’s my soulmate. Here to carry me to safety.

She’s not going to fall.” Felix doesn’t look up as he says this, blocking Alec’s shot and sending the puck my way. “I’m not worried,” I mutter. There’s no way Felix knows the double meaning his words carry. But I can’t miss it.

We’re not done yet,” he says, leading me next door to Book Smart, which is, in my opinion, the best independent book shop in the state. “We’re going to the bookstore?” I ask in a hushed whisper. “If that’s okay?” Oh, it’s more than okay.

What anti-feminist part of myself finds a man in uniform hot because suddenly he has authority?

Do you like K-pop?

I nod to Stuart, who is already moving in the direction of the mic, eager, as they say in the states, to rip the bandaid. We have a saying a little like this, to seize the nettle. Either

Catia’s hired a local guide to whisk us around, and, I suspect, instructed him to tire us out so thoroughly that we wouldn’t have much energy for sneaking off with lifeguards, boys from the Lido, or art teachers. Certainly, though the guide’s a man, Catia has picked one who won’t be any temptation to a group of single teenage girls. He’s a skinny, hollow-chested academic type who wears a sweater and tweed jacket even in this hot weather. It’s just really unfortunate that he’s also called Luigi.

Tilly was soft in all ways that word can be used. Kind-hearted, even-tempered, patient, and the owner of this reassuringly squishy midsection that made the hugs all the more satisfying.

Our kiss was a complete blindside. I feel like I've been run over by a truck. A truck I want to chase down and ask to run over me again and again.

It's ugly sweater weather," he declared, green eyes bright, dancing.

What if Caleb and I are like a nice, cozy sweater. A favorite sweater. The one you cannot wait to pull out as soon as the weather turns. The one that you’ve worn through your highest highs and your lowest lows. Comfortable. Dependable. But one day, you notice a broken stitch and tug on the thread a little too hard. Then, you keep tugging and tugging trying to find the end of the loose thread. But instead, the whole thing falls apart and you’re left wearing nothing—your tits out to the wind—with a pile of yarn at your feet.” “Then, I guess, you’d pick up the yarn and knit another sweater.