Love is stolen in the shadows of the night. Though it's wrong all along, it keeps going on as long as they keep it out of sight.
("Let's stand under a tree," she said. "Why?" "Because it's nicer." "Maybe you should sit on a chair, and I'll stand above you, like they always do with husbands and wives." "That's stupid." "Why's it stupid?" "Because we're not married." "Should we hold hands?" "We can't." "But why?" "Because, people will know." "Know what?" "About us." "So what if they know?" "It's better when it's a secret." "Why?" "So no one can take it from us.")
Like other secret lovers, many speak mockingly about popular culture to conceal their passion for it.
Under cover of her silence he pressed her arm closely to his side; and, as they stood at the hotel door, he felt that they had escaped from their lives and duties, escaped from home and friends and run away together with wild and radiant hearts to a new adventure.
We can't hold hands― Someone might see. Won't you please Hold toes with me?
Flirtation is merely an expression of considered desire coupled with an admission of its impracticability.
Love is a spy who is plotting treason, In league with that warm, red rebel, the Heart.
Love ambushed you, it lay in wait, dormant for days or years. It was the red thread, the peach stone, the kiss, the forgiveness. It came after you, it escaped you, it was invisible, it was everything.
We made a plan at school to meet in her garage and kiss. It was like this little business deal. I kissed her and then I ran home
The pleasure in lovers' gifts is that they are often covert and secretive, worn next to the skin, hidden under pillows.
You called me a natural con artist and asked me what other secrets I was hiding. I didn't answer because I already knew, in some deep, primal way, what furtive truth you were referring to: That I was destined to fall in love with you.
