scott

Layla is a goddess. Her hair—Jesus, it’s like you expect it to be fake. It’s sumptuous, like on a Botticelli or a Titian. But if you pull it, it’s real. Because I have. And her little fingertips? They have no creases. Like she’s carved from stone. But they’re not cold or stiff or anything. Pygmalion made her; then she kicked him in the nuts, ran away, and developed a personality.

Layla is a goddess. I’ve spent more hours sketching her face than any art project I ever had in school. How the fuck did my dumbshit brother get so lucky?

I don’t know which I hate more: the fact that I didn’t get her or the fact that he did.

At least she and Brett stuck around for the whole barbecue. I could tell he was anxious to take off.