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Show Moon - 9 martinis right in a row, which gave her time to study his face for the first time. It was, she decided, despite the angular planes of manhood, the face of a brooding child who wasn't sure he'd be believed. His brows were heavy, and this made his eyes look sad, and the narrow rise of his smile was uncertain, almost tremulous. Then he told her how he loved the way the light changed her hazel eyes from brown to green to yellow and how her braids in a coronet made her look like a queen. He said, "There's a wickedness in you, a passion inside so powerful it makes you quiet. Am I right?" He kept asking, "Am I right?" until the heat rose in her face and she said, "Maybe." Something made her want to weep with gratitude, not because of his adoration, but for his noticing her. He ordered another martini, took her charcoal smudged hand in his and said, "The minute you walked into my class, I said to myself, 'There's a woman who feels things, really feels them.'" She thought she should object to his drinking. But she liked the feel of his hand, which was damp and very warm. There was no reason for feeling that his drinking was wrong, even though her mother would say it was, and so she let him talk on and smiled sometimes. He looked down at the ginger ale she'd ordered. "You don't drink?" She shook her head. "It makes me sick." It wasn't really a lie. Once Michael had sneaked some wine into the house and insisted that she drink some. The wine made her incredibly warm, and for a few moments she thought she'd found the answer to a lifetime of being cold. But as soon as the pleasure settled on her, the bile rose in her throat and she dashed to the bathroom. |