“It sounds plausible enough tonight, but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning.”

“Pethi mou, you are one special lady. Take care of yourself. If you ever need anything, you know where I am."

Then he surprised her by placing a kiss on her cheek. She savored the feel of his lips as they feathered against her skin, the gentle caressing of his hands in her hair, and she couldn't help nuzzling against him.

He inhaled sharply.

He cupped her head, his fingers strong, yet gentle. He kissed her hungrily.”

There’s plenty of sense in nonsense sometimes, if you wish to look for it.

“The trouble with writing fiction is that it has to make sense, whereas real life doesn’t.”

Margaret use to say that there were two sorts of women: those with clear edges to them, and those who implied mystery. And that this was the first thing a man sensed, and the first thing that attracted him, or not. Some men are drawn to one type, some the other. Margaret - you won't need me to tell you - was clear-edged, but at times she could be envious of those who carried, or manufactured, an air of mystery.

"I like you just as you are,' I once said to her.
'But you know me so well by now,' she replied. We had been married about six or seven years. 'Wouldn't you prefer it if I were a little more ... unknowable?'

'I don't want you to be a woman of mystery. I think I'd hate it. Either it's just a facade, a game, a technique for ensnaring men, or else the woman of mystery is a mystery to even herself, and that's the worst of all.'