“Your screenplay sucks, Mrs. Frey, but I know a way you can make it up to me. And afterward, you can stay late and rewrite the ending."

We thought midlife hadn't been hard enough up until now so we decide to date while we trudged through the Celibate Desert. We're so thirsty.

Stopping quickly in The Ivy’s valet area, movie star Bran Barclay stepped from his plaid Tesla. His neon smile lit up the grey L.A. horizon.

My horse fell on me, violently thrashing, like a turtle stuck on his back. I looked at the silent police officer lying next to me...

“I want you to ride bareback behind me on my horse to Sagebrush,” the handsome Scot said, brushing the hair away from my face... ​Bareback?

As the car began to skid, sparks flew up from the plane's propellors as they dug into the concrete.

At Waffle House there's a chance the cook would ash his dart in the grits.

"You don't have to feign interest in film for me," he said, letting me off the hook. "Oh, thank goodness," I groaned.

He was from California, I was from Texas and we met in the bush of Australia as kids. And then we met again when our lives were almost over.

I delight to sit in his shade, and his fruit is sweet to my taste.

There's only so much temptation a couple of divorced, celibate grownups can take.

I said sourly, “I used rubber bands to make my costume & you used Paramount Pictures." "You're still the fairest lass," my movie star said.

“So, you’re an ex-wife?” he asked. I was so shocked, but I laughed. “Isn’t every wife an ex-wife? I mean, eventually?” I replied.