If you don't want me to see, I guess, don't sleep in the same room as me." He looks at her with a sly smile. "But I'm known for sleeping in school. It's my shtick.

Janie: Did you ever sell drugs? Cabel: Yes. Pot. Ninth and tenth grade. I was, uh...rather troubled back then. Janie: Why did you stop? Cabel: Got busted, and Captain made me a better deal. Janie: So you've been a narc since then? Cabel: I cringe at your terminology.

They linger near the back door, forehead to forehead and curved like statues as their lips whisper and brush together.

No rash decisions. No big commitments. Each day as it comes.

With practice, you will master your own dreams.

And he's pressing into her and she into him, bodies shivering, like they are two scared, lost children, starving, starving to be touched, to be held, by someone, anyone, the first one they can find who seems familiar enough, safe enough, strong enough to rescue them. They breathe, heavy. Hard. Their fingers strain at cotton. And then they slow down. Stop. Hold. Rest. Before one of them, or both, begins to sob. Before they break another piece that needs to be fixed.

So, ah, I'm not sure if you know this, but you're not wearing a shirt." "Distracting, isn't it?