He pulled the baseball cap lower down over his eyes. It was instinct. He didn’t even really notice himself doing it. He didn’t notice himself doing it because he was listening to her. And answering… something.
There’s that other gear. You know? But, you don’t really control it. It surprises you, a little, when you actually hit it. Thoughts exploding and fighting to be the first to tumble off of your tongue. You barely recognize your own voice. Animated. Earnest. Probably too earnest, but you don’t care.
At the same time you’re straining to hear — and memorize — every doubloon of spoken treasure that she has to offer.
He reached up — with both hands — and made sure that the bill of his baseball cap had just the proper bend.
You can’t will yourself into this gear. Stunning sweetness won’t do it. Preternatural beauty can’t force it. (No matter how much you sometimes wish that it could.)
It’s chemical. It’s subconscious. It’s exciting.
And practiced indifference is no match for it.
He cursed hand-tying societal rules that told him that it was probably a little too soon to propose. You know, having just met her and all.
He watched her throw her head back as she laughed. Real. He lifted his hat, by the bill, with his left hand, as he made sure that his hair was all tucked up inside with his right.
It would be pretty neat, he thought, to have the ability to stop time.