I didn't sleep particularly well.
This wasn't unusual after an evening that had rearranged something fundamental in the architecture of my daily life, and I was self-aware enough to recognize it for what it was rather than lying in the dark inventing reasons for the insomnia. I lay on my back staring at the ceiling with the lamp still on in the living room casting a thin line of light under the bedroom door, and I thought about Ryan Nelson standing in my kitchen with his jacket on the floor and his hands at my waist and the expression on his face when he'd pulled back and said I want to do this correctly.
The wanting to do it correctly was, I had decided somewhere around two in the morning, the most attractive thing about him. More than the face, more than the hands, more than the partic
