"Of course," I told you. "Now go to sleep."
Love is a bedtime story, a teddy bear, a familiar, one eye missing.
"Do you love me, carita?" Lydia says, twisting my arm, forcing my face into the rouch horsehair blanket, biting my neck. "Say it, you bitch."
Love is a toy, a token, a scented hankerchief.
"Tell me you love me," Barry said.
"I love you," I said. "I love you, I love you."
Love is a check, that can be forged, that can be cashed.
Love is a payment that comes due.