The lines of her face, turned up to the sky, would have broken your heart.

In the hazy afternoon light through the windows he looked beautiful and dissolute, shirt open at the collar and streaks of golden hair falling into his eyes, like some Regency buck after a long night's dancing.

I should've known the eyes. Wide, bright blue, and something about the delicate arc of the lids: a cat's slant, a pale jeweled girl in an old painting, a secret.

Smoked like it was fuel and he was going to get every last inch to the gallon.

Above the front door the fanlight glowed blue, delicate as wing-bones.