books—Miriam, ever indifferent to the wiles of men, fell in utter, marrow-boiling love the moment her doe eyes locked with those of the young man in front of her. She had never seen anyone that dark. He was the color of a lonely street in the middle of the night. Almost indigo. He had a wide nose that became a bulb at the end, and large lips that curved to a fine point at the top. It was all Miriam could do not to kiss them. And his hair—Miriam stopped herself from running a hand through it. She could tell his hair was curly because even though it was cut short, waves slick with sheen
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