It’s a wonder that my heart hasn’t climbed out through my mouth and taken off running on little legs toward the dressing room. As the man who has been seeing Stella naked on a regular basis since Monday, I am not surprised that she looks so beautiful. Not a smidge. Whether she’s moaning against the tile wall in my shower, drifting off to sleep to one of my Aunt Edna stories or staring out the window of my living room, brow wrinkled in thought, she’s never not messing with my pulse. Clothed, unclothed, the damn thing is erratic twenty-four seven. At this point, I’m pretty sure I’d cause an EKG machine to start smoking, so no. I’m not shocked in the slightest that she looks like an angel in the dressing room mirror.