“Buttoning the length of my shirt with Left Neglect and one right hand takes the same kind of singular, intricate, held-breath concentration that I imagine someone trying to dismantle a bomb would need to have.”

“Maybe my ploy had worked. I wore a respectable shirt that buttoned down the front, only - whoops! – I must have forgotten to fasten the button over my cleavage. No respectable girl would wear her shirt open that low. (Cough.)”

“My hand found its way back to her knee. I hoped it was to comfort her. I’d hate to think that my right hand was straight. “Soon. I’ll call her this afternoon and get back to you.” She nodded. I removed my right hand, thankful that I was left-handed. I’d hate to have to try masturbating with a straight hand. It probably wouldn’t cooperate. And then where would I be?”

“He held up his right hand and spread my fingers out in a fan. I held up my left hand and spread my fingers out in a fan and we made our fingers and thumbs touch each other.”

“I raised my right hand and placed my left on the Quran, which was being held by my wife and mom. Suddenly, I was blinded by a cascade of camera flashes...”

“He grabbed the count's hand to check his pulse, and I held my breath. The count wouldn't have a pulse. Or a heartbeat. Or a breath.”