The world is a thick, dark haze. It's blurry - because you refuse to wear contacts - but even without glasses you can see he's beautiful.

He pulls his face closer, hypnotist eyes alight with the bouncing club lights. You hope that Cosmo didn't smear your lipstick. He says something and it's like a bell in your ear, like a nice kind of ringing.

There's no alarm, not like with most. And the base still hums at the bottom of your stomach. Spinning, your arms reach out to him. Come closer.

His breath - it smells cold like copper. No, that's not right.

It's sweet, sweet strawberries covered in a thick layer of sugar. You don't like sweets and you've had enough already, but his face is glutinous, inviting. Gorge yourself.

He's butter-wouldn't-melt-in-his-mouth, homespun and sweet.

You tell your brain: Dispense with the food analogies, please.

He's still next to you, waiting. You've never seen a boy who looks like he's been pulled and cajoled from the glossy pages of an art catalog before - if he stood still enough to let you kiss him, he'd be a statue instead of a model.

You grab his wrist and he moves with you. Walking briskly, you cuddle into him. He's cold, refreshing.

A tall drink of water, you think.

Then: Well, it's not a food.

You shudder against a gust of wind, quicken your pace. Now you're in front of him (he's too chilly to cuddle up against) and he's turning you around. You close your eyes. Rise; tiptoes.

Your neck hurts. Snap.