“I don’t care about boys, Lin.” Henning entered the kitchen then, drying off his paint-smudged hands on an old rag that he then tucked into the back waistband of his jeans. His hair was collected in a messy knot at the back of his head, streaks of honey, caramel, and gold shining in the red-gold light of sunset spilling through the big window over the sink. There was a smear of vermilion acrylic paint on his cheekbone and some turquoise on his stubbled jaw. The tee stretched too tight over his broad chest was old, thin enough to trace the planes and hollows of dense muscles. My mouth went dry
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