an excerpt

It's been snowing every day but not sticking. The windows in my room are drafty and my space heater stopped working, so I sleep underneath four comforters and it still takes me a little while to stop shivering. Needless to say, I don't get much sleep at night. But I make up for it during the day when I take incredibly long naps (longest is four hours). My last undergraduate class is at 2:30. After that, I have two 15-page papers and three exams. By Tuesday I'll be DONE! In the meantime I've been working on my serial novella; the first book, which will be around 150 pages, is 1/3 done. Here is the beginning of the first scene:

Sometimes he cannot even look at her, because it hurts too much. They sit on the single sofa in the living room. The only words spoken that of their fragrant breathing. The night is quiet and calm, a gentle rain falling and sparkling underneath the streetlights. There is the sound of dripping water somewhere in the house. She clutches a Heineken and sits looking at him, the dark charcoal whiskers webbing out from the bridge of her nose and carving lines across her cheeks, highlighting her piercing eyes and voluptuous lips. Nothing is said, nothing has to be said. They are entirely comfortable amidst conversation and laughter and silence. She looks at him, and he looks at her, and he looks away, unable to behold her anymore, and he fiddles with his fingers upon his jeans as his mind becomes a racetrack and his thoughts become thunderous Arabian horses drawing flaming chariots, spinning round and round the track in a cloud of smoke and dust through which he can hardly sift. He is like a schoolboy entering the dawn of pubescent discovery, and he is stunned by her beauty again and again; the shifting of light or the drawing of a shadow or the emergence of a new angle upon her figure alerts him to yet another unique beauty she holds. He looks up from playing with his thumbs and sees that she has looked away, fondling her half-empty bottle of beer, eyes drawn sour as she gazes at the hardwood floor stained with cigarette ashes. He looks at her there and wants nothing more than to hold her and kiss her and comfort her and cherish her, but he knows he cannot. His thoughts buzz around like bees in a hive, and he is unable to slow them down, but one thought remains prominent and vibrant, and that is the thought—no, the conviction—that she is the most beautiful girl he has ever laid his eyes upon.