“He wondered if it was possible to die from wanting someone so much. In this narrow hall of plates all he could smell was her, lemons and the dusty, sun-bleached smell of her uniform, the softer, more complicated smell of Carmen's skin. Thirty seconds to kiss her neck, that wasn't asking so much. He would not even mind if she kept on writing. He would kiss her that gently, her pencil need never leave the page.”
—Ann Patchett, Bel Canto