Lou’s convinced I never sleep. I savor the sentiment, that someone could imagine me late to tuck in and early to rise. Like a hard worker.

At night, we turn out the lights and lay nose to nose, whispering questions: if my face was a cake, which part would you eat first? Lou wants my cheeks; I want their nose.

In the morning, I get embarrassed after having blurted out: It’s like when we kiss I’m inside your brain. Lou asks what I mean. I say I don’t know, but I do.

During a nap, foreheads touching, rain-kissing, Lou pulls back abruptly and says, I think your aura’s bubble gum pink.