“He could take one look at me- at the ashtray, the bottle, the four pots of coffee, my face, and my gut set like a stone on the white band of the towel- he could take one look at me and be pretty sure i ran on heavy fuel.”

“Huh. I’m not sure how to respond to this. Is Alex Trebek black? He sure doesn’t look black. He looks pretty white to me. He looks like the quintessence, the very incarnation, of whiteness.”

“He took one of my hands in his, and I brought the other to his face, wondering how his eyes could look like chipped ice and still warm me to my core.”

“You are beautiful, but you are empty,” he went on. “One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you--the rose that belongs to me.”

“And if I could bottle the look on his face, I'd keep it by my bedside for the rest of my life.”

“Your Aunt Hermia will not thank you for attempting to poach her maid. Do not look to me for protection,” he advised. “I have my hands quite full with one March lady. I could not rise to the challenge of taking on another.”