‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. “What are you doing?” “Nothing. The fragrance of dryer sheets lay upon her like the snow that now drifted peacefully outside. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. Oddly, Sebastian chose to be charioteer. Flattened flowers aren’t for the likes of us. .
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