“I think it was the short story,” Gabe says. “The story?” “I think that’s where it started,” he says. “When I read your story.” “It’s not that good of a story,” I say. “I guess I really like dragons, then,” he says. “Because by the time you walked up to my front door, talking to yourself, I think I was already halfway infatuated with you. It wasn’t just the story, I don’t think, though it was good. It was the way you wrote it. The way your brain worked. I liked that. A lot.”
