We All Want Impossible Things

by Catherine Newman

Now Jonah has no hair on his head, but his thick, luscious eyebrows shine auburnly in the last of the light. “Your eyebrows,” I say admiringly, and he runs a finger over one, waggles them suggestively, says, “You like?” and then heaves himself up to sitting, bends this way and that to crack his back. “It’s a lot for the old bod, spending time with you,”

Im sturuggling with the lack of new paragraphs for speaking sections