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There are girls that you want to fuck hastily, hard and against the wall with your trousers around your ankles. I am not one of those girls. This one wants to worship her, tracing every blessed square inch of her body with trembling fingers. You pour her coffee, make her breakfast in bed, and silently stare at the street outside the window as you share the last cigarette, in part because she’s too stunningly beautiful to look at directly, and also to try and come to grips with the shocking reality that somehow the outside world is oblivious to the fact that you are in the presence of a goddess, tender and silent.