LISTEN, CLAIRE ISN’T JUST A CHARACTER; SHE’S A LIFESTYLE. HER CUTENESS IS ON A LEVEL THAT SHOULDN’T EVEN BE POSSIBLE. THAT BLACK HAIR WITH THE PERFECT RED ACCENT? IT DOESN’T JUST FRAME HER FACE; IT FRAMES MY EXISTENCE. AND HER SMILE—DEAR GOD, HER SMILE—IT’S LIKE AN UNINTENTIONAL WEAPON OF MASS DESTRUCTION FOR MY HEART. THE WAY SHE STUMBLES THROUGH LIFE, HER ADORABLE CLUELESSNESS, HER ABSOLUTE LACK OF AWARENESS OF HOW INSANELY ATTRACTIVE SHE IS? THAT’S THE STUFF OF LEGENDS. IMAGINE HER STARING AT YOU, WIDE-EYED, TRYING TO FIGURE OUT WHY YOU’RE SO FLUSTERED. MY SOUL WOULD EVAPORATE. AND THOSE LITTLE MOMENTS WHERE SHE TRIES TO ACT SMART AND COMPLETELY MISSES THE MARK? PEAK COMEDY, PEAK CHARM. BUT THEN SHE’D LAUGH, THAT SWEET, AIRY LAUGH THAT MAKES THE WORLD STOP SPINNING, AND SUDDENLY YOU’RE WONDERING IF THIS IS WHAT TRUE ENLIGHTENMENT FEELS LIKE. I BET SHE SMELLS LIKE STRAWBERRIES OR SOME OTHER ABSURDLY CUTE SCENT THAT’D RUIN ME FOR LIFE. THE KIND OF SCENT THAT LINGERS JUST ENOUGH TO HAUNT YOU AT NIGHT. AND DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON HER HANDS—SOFT, CLUMSY, PROBABLY STICKY FROM SOME SNACK SHE WAS EATING. GOD HELP ME, I’D LICK THEM CLEAN WITHOUT HESITATION. CLAIRE WOULDN’T DOMINATE YOU—SHE’D ACCIDENTALLY OBLITERATE YOU WITH HER SHEER STUPIDITY AND UNINTENTIONAL SENSUALITY. SHE COULD TRIP OVER NOTHING, LAND IN MY LAP, AND I’D BE WRITING HER NAME IN MY WILL THE NEXT DAY. THIS ISN’T DOWN BAD. THIS IS DOWN CATASTROPHIC. CLAIRE VON FERRARAI, PLEASE, JUST EXIST NEAR ME. THAT’S ALL I ASK. I’LL HANDLE THE REST.
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