Skeletons, he realized, were no good at being obvious and outward with their emotions. He wanted to wink at her but he had no eyelids. He wanted to smile at her but his lips were gone. He couldn’t even stammer or trip over his words because he could not speak. She could lie on the floor and read Lolita all she wanted and memorize passages and scream them at the top of her lungs and dissolve into giggles at her own loudness. It was almost too late that he realized a girl that beautiful and intelligent and tragic would only make a mess of things anyway. He straightened his cuff links and wished he knew anything, anything at all.