Only Miranda never slept. She watched the clock on her bedside table, or pressed her face against Dev's
fingers, intertwined with hers, each with its half-dozen hairs at the knuckle. After six minutes she turned to
face him, sighing and stretching, to test if he was really sleeping. He always was. His ribs were visible
through his skin as he breathed, and yet he was beginning to develop a paunch. He complained about the
hair on his shoulders, but Miranda thought him perfect, and refused to imagine him any other way.