I should be glad that my boyfriend has saved the day by grabbing my things, but the fact that I ruined it makes me feel unraveled, as though my hair is frizzy, my lipstick smudged, my dress crooked—oh, well it is stained, so there’s that. And my mouth flies open before I can shut it. “You’re good at that.” His brow arches, seeing exactly where I’m going. “Of sticking my key into a hole.” His hand drifts to the crook of my hip. “I said nothing about your keyhole,” I retort. “No, I believe you were about to comment on your keyhole and my key.” “If you’re trying to frazzle me with sexual idioms,
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