(from Brief Encounters with Che Guevara)
“We can’t do this tonight,” he told her. One of his arms held her shoulders, sympathetic yet sterile, exuding a brotherly tenderness that scared the daylights out of her.
“Tomorrow’s fine, we can do it all day tomorrow and frankly there’s nothing I’d rather do. But tonight I can’t.” He paused. “I can’t make love on Saturdays.”
I’m really digging this Ben Fountain guy. He knows when to dirty up a sentence with extra phrases. He knows when to drive straight and let the story tell the story. You can read it here.