"Touch me, Harry."

"Where? Here?"

"No, not there. Not yet. Be patient."

"OK then, where?"

"Start here. Tell me what you feel."

"Silk."

"Mmm-hmm, good. But you can do better than that. Silk is so cliché."

"And butter."

"Butter?"

"Yeah, smooth and creamy and soft and sweet and so rich I wish I was a hot knife so I could slide right into you."

"Oh, that's better. Tell me more."

"I can feel your freckles."

"You don't feel freckles, Harry. You only see them."

"I can feel them. There's one right here… and here… and a whole cluster of them right here."

"That doesn't count. You could say that about anywhere. What else do you feel?"

"Mmm… cheese."

"Cheese? I feel like cheese?"

"Yeah, you do."

"How do you figure?"

"Well, cheese is like butter, all creamy and smooth, but more solid, fleshier. You can reach out and hold it, grip it in your hands, wrap your tongue around it as you savor the taste, let it melt in your mouth while your tastebuds ride the cascade of miniature sensations, and then when it's gone the only thing you want is one more bite, to feel that texture, that soft resistance on your lips and teeth, that smoky goodness winding its way into your bloodstream once again."

"Oh."

"But here you feel different. Down here you feel like—"

"Harry, stop."

"What is it?"

"I'm hungry."