"'You claim to be the man, you want me for a lover, So you can do my girlfriends and my sister and my mother?' I said, 'You're very blunt,' with quickness to the cue, 'So whassup with your mother, does she look as good as you?'"

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Over time, the ghosts of things that happened start to turn distant; once they've cut you a couple of million times, their edges blunt on your scar tissue, they wear thin. The ones that slice like razors forever are the ghosts of things that never got the chance to happen.

— Tana French