Mariela had tried to discern what love was made of, but love was not easily discipherable. It was a quickened heart, a trembling mouth, a breath, a quake, a dream. It was physical and metaphysical, territorial and saintly. It was sacrificing and jealous, maudlin and profound, well-anticipated and entirely unpredictable, and she found it in all its various guises at the end of a long loneliness that she had thought would last her lifetime.
