Your palms are sweaty, I'm barely listening to last demands.

I'm staring at the asphalt wondering what's buried underneath.

Oh, you're beautiful; I just get the urge to tell people who think they aren't.

I wonder, Chatelaine, if you've ever had sweaty palms? They seem permanently dry, always at work. Worked hands, square and strong with reasonable nails.

A stranger with a door key explaining that I'm just visiting.