He chuckles. “Should I wax poetics for you?” he asks. Perking up, I shift closer. “Yes, please do,” I say, gesturing for him to take the floor. Grinning, he says, “Your hair is like the finest seaweed that clings to the sides of my ship.” My nose wrinkles. “Your eyes are as beautiful as the dark, stormy seas.” “Better,” I encourage. “and the monsters beneath the waves,” he finishes. “You ruined it,” I laugh. He holds his hand toward my chest. “Your bosom is as bountiful as the first day after a trip to town,” he continues, dragging more laugher from me.
