“I kept the fingers of my left hand crossed all the time, while on my right-hand fingers I counted anything at all—steps to the refrigerator, seconds on the clock, words in a sentence—to keep my head occupied. The counting felt like something to hang on to, as if finding the right numbers might somehow crack the code on whatever system ran the slippery universe we were moving through.”

“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 was like a clock that had exploded- my springs were hanging out, my hands were cockeyed, and my numbers were falling off.”

“Because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don't want to miss any of them.”

“Experience counts for something. I count with my fingers. I could count on you, but you’ve only got one finger for me (the middle one).”

“If that’s all you’ve got, I’m not too worried,” he taunted me. I dipped my hand in the wet sand, grabbing a handful. I slowly raised it above his head threatening to release it. Before I even noticed, he caught my wrist and pulled it back down. Holding my eyes, he delicately threaded his fingers through mine, while the wet sand squished out. The gesture was somehow very intimate and a shiver ran down my spine. The wet sand ran down my arm but I didn’t even notice. We stayed like that, hand in hand, facing the ocean for what seemed like hours.”