Stephen Newton was in love.
From his hiding place, he watched her disrobe and gracefully dive into the old swimming hole. Her alabaster skin shimmered under the water like some kind of glorious she-fish, her hair a jet-streamed collection of delicate seaweed.
“Oh that doesn’t do her justice at all,” Newton said, disgusted with his poetic shortcomings. “Look at her, she’s gorgeous. Like beauty itself. No that’s not right either. What’s a beautiful thing that swims? A porpoise? God, I really suck at this.”
He wished he could come up with a way to describe her superlative beauty. He wished she would love him.
He wished he’d had enough courage to talk to her.
Then he could have warned her about the miniature black hole that was about to suck her into its event horizon.
The perils of not having the guts to talk to a pretty girl just keep getting more and more dangerous as man foolishly pokes and prods those scientific concepts best left, um, unprodded.