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“The class was divided in to three stations, and Robbie B explained eash of them to me with a g-less version of its corresponding gerund; trampin', liftin', whippin'....In liftin' I'd be doing things with weights: curling them. pressing them over my head -- the sort of shit that I'm sure people consider manual labor elsewhere, but that in New York you pay fifty-two dollars to do.”

“The class was not fun, as Nick had promisjed....Once, Robbie B yelled at me over this microphone, by name, to "whip" harder, so I did. I whipped so fucking hard that as he was walking by, the rope sprang up and hit him in the face....His nose was red and blood was poring down hto his shirt. He started clapping.... "You don't need help? You don't want me to stop?" "Don't stop! Never stop!”

“...Henrique is very much alive. But the temptation to fantasize, to imagine the thousands of bloody and gruesome ways that her ex-husband could have met his end...She wonders how Kim is conceiving of it....Donna won't give her an explanation. She prefers instead that the stranger she lies to imagine and reimagine Henrique's death on their lunch breaks, their drives home. She comforts herself knowing that, at least, for the next few hours, Kim will be killing Henrique in their mind. A thousand tiny deaths.”