Nick and I spent a good deal of time inside of my car this weekend...and, as he reached for my hand (as he regularly does) two hours into the first leg, he exclaimed, "How come YOUR hands are soft and mind are dry!?" I shrugged in lieu of defending that I've had my butt diced up, and shouldn't I be allowed soft hands as compensation? We had been breakfasting two hours earlier, and as we chose our table, I experienced my first shock of the trip.

With all due respect to the dignitaries, heads of state, and parents in the LauraLore reading audience, I won't mention precisely where Nick's outstretched fingers zapped me, only that he said was trying to remove a bit of fuzz from my cardigan. I clutched my hand over the affected area and guarded it protectively with my poutiest expression. Until coffee came. Then the rapture swallowed the pout whole and the message was lost.

The entire weekend was rather electric, actually...and I began to fear kissing and touching of any sort (from Nick): I came THIS close to demanding he ground himself before entering my 18-inch radius. We greeted each other this morning as he, fresh from his shower, noticed me for the first time of the day. He leaned down to kiss me and then jerked back, poking his index finger into his cheek wildly. Saucer-eyed, he warned, "I don't know how much electricity I have..."

Wrapping my arms around my body and tensing every muscle I'm capable of tensing, I clamped my eyes shut and tilted my chin up on a whimpering pucker and waited for my end.