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couch. “That’s funny. I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

Chapter 8
HE
    A nother big red “X.”
    Another day done.
    Another day closer.
    He smiled to himself as he looked at the calendar, the days, weeks, and months shrinking down to infinity, down to the days, weeks, and months when he would have her all to himself.
    He sat down to his weekly arts and crafts project, humming to himself as he edged the scissors around the glossy edge of the photograph, flakes of photo paper floating to the wobbly card table like confetti. He finished cutting the photo and leaned back to admire his work. She was on her way to the gym, her eyes tucked behind gigantic sunglasses, her customary serious expression shading the lower half of her face. He clipped it to the clothesline running from one end of the room to the other, then stood back to examine the fluttering menagerie of ovals, squares, and misshapen figurines, happy as always to have another prize for his collection.
    He sometimes surprised himself with how good his photography skills had become, slowly progressing from grainy messes on disposable cameras to learning how to use a telephoto lens during those days when he had all that time on his hands. It was like his daddy always said—practice makes perfect.
    At first, he’d tried keeping his library of photographs on his computer and then CDs, but he just didn’t get the same pleasure from scrolling through static images as he did from touching the glossy pictures. He loved the heft of the stacks of photos in his hand, the way the light caught the paper, the feel of his palm sliding across the smooth laminate of her face, almost as if he could feel her moving, smiling, talking beneath his fingertips. You just couldn’t get that sensation on a computer screen.
    He’d memorized every line, every smile, every crinkle of her eyes, every scrunch of her nose. Sometimes, he would notice some new detail that had previously escaped his attention. The presence of a pimple, a pinprick of lighter skin on the back of one hand, a poppy seed stuck in one tooth. He found these imperfections charming. Not that he thought anything about her was imperfect.
    He ran his finger in a straight line across the photos as he walked from one end of the room to the other, his eyes never even blinking. He couldn’t help himself.
    He never got tired of looking at her.

Chapter 9
SHE
    “S o is it just me, or is this kind of weird?”
    Natalie was pacing her apartment, something she often did when talking on the phone. “What do you mean?”
    “I mean, when you think about it, we haven’t spent that much time together.”
    “You’ve lost me.”
    “Okay, let me start over,” he said. “I think that first lunch we had probably counted as five conversations in one day. And then when we went to dinner on Saturday, that was definitely like ten conversations, at least.”
    “Right.”
    “Well, and we met up for coffee—well, you had tea, I had coffee—on Sunday afternoon, and that had to be like another five conversations.”
    “Uh huh.”
    “It’s just, I feel like either we only have the same five stories in our repertoire, or we’re getting to know each other really well, really fast.”
    “Umm . . . I’m gonna say we just have the same five stories.”
    “Huh,” he said. “You’re probably right.”
    Natalie looked at the clock on her microwave. “Whoa. It’s twelve-thirty.”
    “Damn. What time did I call you?”
    “Nine, I think?”
    “Huh . . . doesn’t even seem like it.”
    “Well, as much as I’m enjoying hearing all about your theories on why you don’t believe in umbrellas, refuse to eat chicken on the bone, and why you pinch your nose every time you see an ambulance, I have to get going. I’ve got a long day tomorrow,” she said.
    He laughed. “I’m strange, huh?”
    “A little,” she giggled. “Okay, a lot. But hey, we all have our hang-ups.”
    “I like to think I’m eccentric. You know, wired