I watch her study a row of bath mats. If I could, I would run this scanner over Delilah, locking every feature into my personal wish list. Her golden hair—scanned with a beep. Mine. The delicate line of her neck. Beep. Mine. I would crouch down and scan her delicate ankle, the one with the half-moon scar close to her heel. I want to hold the gun over the shell of her ear, which holds my attention for far longer than it should. So many women have pierced ears—why doesn’t Delilah? It sparks a rabid curiosity and also makes me want to take the lobe gently between my teeth.
