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Hvor store sjanser var det for at man skulle møte en sånn person? undret han. En du kan elske bestandig, en som bestandig vil elske deg igjen? Og hva gjorde du hvis denne personen var født på den andre siden av jordkloden?

Han prøvde å huske hvordan alt dette hadde skjedd - hvordan hun hadde gått fra å være en han aldri hadde møtt til å bli den eneste som betydde noe.

Han kjente på lang avstand at hun kom til å smake jordbær.

Hun så aldri fin ut. Hun så ut som et kunstverk, og kunst skulle ikke se fint ut; det skulle få en til å føle noe.

He kept pretending that they were on a real date, and then he'd remember that they were.

Eleanor was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.

Park kunne ha sagt at han hadde lus og lepra og snyltemark i munnen, og hun ville fortsatt ha tatt på litt ekstra lipsyl. Herregud.

Holding Eleanor's hand was like holding a butterfly. Or a heartbeat. Like holding something complete, and completely alive.

Eleanor was right, she didn’t look nice. She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.

He’d stopped trying to bring her back.She only came back when she felt like it, in dreams and lies and broken-down déjà vu.Like, he’d be driving to work, and he’d see a girl with red hair standing on the corner – and he’d swear, for half a choking moment, that it was her.Then he’d see that the girl’s hair was more blond than red.And that she was holding a cigarette … And wearing a Sex Pistols T-shirt.Eleanor hated the Sex Pistols.Eleanor …Standing behind him until he turned his head. Lying next to him just before he woke up. Making everyone else seem drabber and flatter and never good enough.Eleanor ruining everything.Eleanor, gone.He’d stopped trying to bring her back.