Bloor Line, last car, last seat.

Caucasian woman, 40s, with a broad mouth and slight space between her two front teeth, wearing a white pleather coat, black jeans rolled high, and black leather boots, zipped on the sides and tied up the back.

The Powerbook, Jeanette Winterson (Knopf)

Page 91:

Love is worth death. Love is worth life. My search for you, your search for me, goes beyond life and death into one long call in the wilderness. I do not know if what I hear is an answer or an echo. Perhaps I will hear nothing. It doesn't matter. The journey must be made.

They decided together. She read to the children, tucked them into bed, then joined him in theirs where they made love once more, and decided, her suitcases packed but laid open so nothing would settle, wrinkle, make it harder on the other end. He would be fine. Besides, he wasn't the one leaving town for the term, going to a lonely place alone. She could do what she wanted, come home, and the town would be none the wiser. But he would have to worry about the kids. Kids talk.