"the happiness of love is a shooting meteor; the pain of love is the darkness following." a girl is singing to herself in a clear voice as she walks past granny lin down the street. she tries to catch up with the girl, but the girl moves too fast, and so does the song. granny lin puts the duffelbag on the ground and catches her breath, still hanging on to her stainless-steel lunch pail with her other hand. all the people on the street seem to know where their legs are taking them. she wonders when she stopped being one of them.

- yiyun lee, "extra," new yorker december 22, 2003