“Kristy smiles at both of us, the kind of smile that makes Julie Andrews look like a jaded crack whore.”

“He gives me a slight smile. I simultaneously want to, like, build shrines to it and punch it off his face. It’s complicated.”

“Well,” he says; a smile curves his mouth, promising wonderful acts of misbehavior, “in that case—”And, well. I like my body when it’s with his body.”

“That chapstick that you’re wearing,” Arthur says after a few seconds, his smile broadening, “is that pink banana?”

“He doesn’t quite kiss me, even though he’s close enough to. I look at him, loving the quiet and the quirk of his mouth when he smiles, thinking I could stick around this guy for always and be happy, thinking I could count his eyelashes and not get bored.”

“Afterwards, we don’t head straight back to work. Instead, we stop at McDonald’s. Kristy gets a Happy Meal. Cora gets like four pies, which doesn’t exactly seem like a healthy, balanced meal to me, but she’s not exactly a healthy, balanced young lady. I get a couple of Big Macs and some fries. Arthur stares at the menu the way a time-traveling seventeenth century Puritan would watch a Lady Gaga music video.”

“I can be in control of my own actions, despite what my track record might imply to the contrary, and suddenly, I just feel like, sure. I can hold my boyfriend-yeah-that’s-right-world-boyfriend’s hand wherever I want to, and not because I want to be all, ‘Check it out, humanity, there’s someone out there who’ll hold my hand,’ but because we’re walking close enough that his arm is against mine and he’s musing over the meaning of ‘crunk’ like he’s sixty-five and somehow, by some mad glorious stroke of luck, he is mine to touch. He looks down at our hands. Ever sensible, he’s wearing gloves, nice leather ones. I left in a hurry, and I’m not exactly the most practical guy to begin with; I’m barehanded, and my fingers are cold. He tightens his grasp on my hand, smiles at me a little bit. I smile back. Beats pockets.”