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"What do you think about when it happens?" Veronica asked him, gently grazing his collarbone with the tips of her breasts, holding herself otherwise aloof.
"You," Harley said truthfully. "You, you, glorious you."
She paused, tracing her fingernails down his ventral line. "You don't see things?"
He considered. "Stars sometimes. When I get carried away and hit my head on the bedstead."
"I see big shapes, bright colors," she told him. "Different ones each time. Deep blue spirals. Orange pinwheels. Fields of yellow flowers."
"Hippie chick," he marveled.
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