" I pursed my lips. “Well maybe I didn’t,” I said. I felt horribly like a hoodwinked schoolgirl. “Understand, I mean.” Mirela sighed and stroked her hand and looked down at the cold shaft of the prosthesis. “We had a nice time, didn’t we? But now we have to go back to our lives. You know that.” I got up and began storming about the room. “But you don’t—” I said agitatedly. “I mean to say you don’t love him—” She could not have turned cooler if I had poured iced water over her; I could feel the temperature in the room drop. “I never said it had anything to do with love,” she said impersonally, like a piano teacher correcting a child who keeps fudging his scales. “Who or what I love is my business. I said I needed him. "

― Paul Murray