“Poor Klein,” she pouts, batting her eyelashes. “Poor me,” I say, trying not to smile. “So sad.” Paisley sits back enough to grab both ends of the towel. Slowly, she pulls them apart, like opening the blinds on a window. As if driven by a spring, I surge forward. Paisley licks her lips, saying impishly, “Would you look at that? It doesn’t light up.”
