There’s a pull on him, something that gently and insistently takes his shoulders and waist and moves him. It’s magnetic. Jesse surrenders.

Euphemia’s a collection of senses, something he could detach and hold out to watch. Sweet tea, strong as syrup, thick taffy taste that’s also her laugh. Ribbon and curls. The sun barring her skin: he thinks of rich soup on an afternoon table. She’s cayenned with freckles.

The gingham of her dress is softly rough, a jumble, a mess, a tarry. A wreck. Rucked. She makes his lips want to pour off words, and then she stops them up.