Our bare arms tangle. I don't move away. Neither does she.

My mother requires that I paint my nails for every occasion.

Anyway, there are no windows in this place.

My dog was dead. My heart was broken. And the sky was on fire.

Prof. Iris Rampling, Director of the academic center and my boss, was on her way home, monochrome in head-to-toe black, bag over her shoulder, perfectly straightened bob of white hair fluttering. She asked me with the efficiency of a woman who is late for her evening gin and tonic if I was uncomfortable by Anthony's attention.