We hugged briefly. It was not a sexy hug. I was trembling violently but not from uncontrollable passion so much as from guzzling a giant mug of instant coffee.
This insane monster is perfectly likable during business hours, but give him a few shots of tequila and he starts acting like someone slipped PCP in his Patron.
Maybe I would’ve felt differently about sex if I cared about most of the people I was with. I tried, I tried, and I tried to muster up some feelings that resembled love—these were all good men, not one-night-stands— but the more I tried, the worse I felt and was certain that I was broken somehow
Part of the reason that Robsten doesn’t matter to me, however, is that I am not a young woman today, and I’m glad that I’m not.