“The sun's nearly level with the horizon, right behind his head, making this weird halo effect around his face—as if! I'm surprised he doesn't smell like brimstone. He probably has a red pitchfork and hides horns under his hair.”

“He leaned over her, the sun behind his head making a halo of gold, his face lit by the reflections off the water.”

“Is that a lion with horns and a pitchfork?""Yep.""Is he carrying the moon on his pitchfork?""Nope it's a pie.”

“The vampire leaned forward, tapping a scimitar claw. "Is that a lion with horns and a pitchfork?""Yep.""Is he carrying a moon on his pitchfork?""No, it's a pie.”

“He was a super shiny boy and I liked the shape of him. Under the blanket. In the shower. I liked his shadow on the street and his imprint on the sofa. I hated the smell of hair gel on his head, but I loved it on the pillow. I love the smell of losing someone.”

“The sun flitered in through the small, dirty windows, catches his eyes. They are brown, ordinary, but the way he looks at me—no one has ever looked at me like he does. He looks at me like he sees something. Someone.Me."All right," he says, and puts his hands behind his head."Go ahead.”