“I went to stand next to him. He radiated heat. It was distracting.”

“Next morning I went over to Paul’s for coffee and told him I had finished. “Good for you,” he said without looking up. “Start the next one today.”

“His skin radiates so much of the day's heat that touching him feels like wading into the lake, opening my hand, and catching one of the white shimmers of blistering afternoon sunlight bouncing across the water.”

“It was as if she had emitted a pulse of radiation that reached him even where he stood, and it bathed him and it burned him.”

“I tried to ignore it, but something about him radiated ultra-sweet and encouraging signals, like he wouldn't be bothered in the least if I jumped into his lap.”

“My knee radiated heat. As I watched him pull himself from the car and walk casually across the brightly lit parking lot, I thought dumb things. I will never wash my knee again. I will never wash these jeans again. I will cut the knee out of these jeans and sew a pillow to sleep on every night, just to have a molecule of him in my bed with me.”