“Something about the way you squeeze me with your legs makes me think you are the kind of person who buys people cookbooks for Christmas,” I murmur.
I am not a night person, but I try to be. What ends up happening is I attempt to stay awake by talking, and start making less and less sense.
The next morning over breakfast, Zak is still processing the brilliance of what he witnessed the night before. “It was perfect,” Zak says, “And by nature of its logic, irrefutable.”