I steal a glance at her and I’m overcome by how perfect she is—her brain, her poetic soul, her grit, her too-trusting heart . . . her hair . . . her eyes . . . her skin . . . that clingy . . . low-cut . . . camisole top . . . draped over the swell of her breasts. . . . And she likes my ass. And now here we are, alone. Oh, God. Okay. Just be cool.
