Okay. Now you have to move your arms and legs.” “I know how to make a snow angel.” “Then do it! Otherwise, you’re more like a chalk outline at a police crime scene.

I’d mentioned this odd wardrobe choice to Adrian a couple of weeks ago: “Isn’t Dimitri hot?” Adrian’s response hadn’t been entirely unexpected: “Well, yeah, according to most women, at least.

Poor Martin. Geek or no, committing his soul to eternal damnation was a helluva price to pay for six minutes.

I still couldn’t stop the sick feeling rising in my stomach. “This could be a disaster.” “How? If anyone even finds it—and it’s not just sitting under a table right now—they’ll just have a good laugh at our sappy talk. No one’s going to be like, ‘Aha! Proof of an illicit human-and-vampire affair.

ʺWhy,ʺ he began slowly, ʺis Victor Dashkov joining us?ʺ ʺWell, itʹs kind of a funny story . . .ʺ

This was the last thing I expected. You destroy my life and then feed me some inspiratonal philosophy.

My commentary's hilarious, not witty.