It was love. He could study the colors and creases in her palm for fifteen minutes, imagining he could see the blood traveling through her capillaries. “What are you looking at?” she’d ask, squirming, smiling “I’m not so interesting.”
But she was. He watched her sort through a box of chocolate-covered raisins, selecting one, then rejecting it by some indiscernible criteria; he watched her button her parka, slip her hand inside her collar to scratch a shoulder…
To be in love was to be dazed twenty times a morning: by the latticework of frost on his windshield, by a feather loosed from his pillow; by a soft, pink rim of light over the hills.
— From About Grace by Anthony Doerr