"And what about the girl?" asked Dahlia.
"Oh. After the office closed, I saw her a few times, wrote her a poem even. She said it was beautiful, so I figured she liked it and I wrote her another one, and a love letter. All beautiful, she said. That was the only thing she said. But I figured that inside she knew what they meant, even though she couldn't talk about it. But truth is, most people don't understand poetry. Maybe they never did. I mean, in the history of the world, maybe only a couple people know what poetry is."
"What a happy couple they must be," said Dahlia.
Johnny smiled, but there was something sad to it. "You would've understood my poems. Maybe killing is wrong. Maybe I've gotten too abstract in my ideals. But when your ideals are personal, then persons let you down. Happens all the time."
"God is personal, Johnny. God is leading my hand to your face." Catherine's words, Dahlia's hand. They were a team. Johnny melted at their touch. Here, finally, was a woman who was women enough for him.