You die a little inside every time you have joyless sex. Neurons prune back. The good in there withers. And some things never grow back. - Hugh Howey

Hello, pineapples,’ he whispered. He bent his head toward his lap and punctured the can, listening closely. The pineapples whispered back. They told him they were safe to eat.

There were certain things, learned so young and remembered so deep that they felt like little stones in the center of her mind. These would be the parts of her that rotted last, the bits left over once the rest skittered off on the wind or was drunk deep by the roots.

The hard things got easier the more you did them.