"Milo refreshed Rae's drink and said, Talk to her. You need to get it off your chest." Then Milo turned to me and said, "Why don't you try a more subtle approach." "I demand you tell me your troubles," I said to my sister. "You're not as funny as you think you are," Rae replied."

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Taro came into the room, strands of hair flying free of the tie at the back of his skull, sweat plastering his cream-colored shirt against his chest and back. I wished I had an artist's skill, that I could make renderings of him in all his states of beauty. He would never want to look at them, or even know about them. I would just like them for myself. Maybe he would want to see them when he was much older, and beautiful in a different way.

— Moira J. Moore