“You smell like electric sunshine.” “Electric sunshine?” she asks. “What exactly does that smell like?” I shift, my body precariously growing closer. “Radiance with a zing, like soft summer meadows zapped by lightning. Like a sweet combination of fire and rain. Soft and edgy. Bright and dark all in one.” She stares up at me, a studying look in her eyes. When she doesn’t say anything, I ask, “What?” “How many women have you said that to?” “You want to know?” I ask. “Yes.” She nods. “I do.” I bring my finger under her chin, tilt it up and say, “None. That was for you and you alone.”
