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You are like a machine, to save yourself." "Is that why you're so mcsweeney's quiet?" "You think I am quiet?" Michael nodded and dared to squeeze him by the shoulder. "Maybe I am." Eli's look, alert, mocking, vulnerable in the corners of his trembling flat mcsweeney's lips, was an unmistakable invitation. Michael kissed his cheek and then laughed at himself. "I've heard men kiss a lot in your culture," he tried to explain. Eli hesitated, then kissed him back, on the lips. "I like listening to you," he whispered. That dizzy night, they kissed against mcsweeney's the concrete wall of the Waldenstejn Garden and inhaled the perfume of cut grass.
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