Astonish Me - Pg 111

   "This city is exquisite," Joan says. "It's trite to say so, but I never get used to it. It makes me greedy. I want to stuff it into my pockets."
   "What is this word?" he asks, his cheek against her temple.
   "Which word?"
   "With 'x'."
   "Exquisite. It means beautiful. But more than that. Like... so delicate and perfect it's almost painful."
   "Painful... it is not help."
   "Perfect down to the smallest part. Like the most lovely ballerina possible. Delicate, fragile, almost too beautiful to look at. She is exquisite."
   "Exquisite," he repeats, and a slight shift in his body betrays that his mind has left her, is following that ghostly ballerina off the bridge and away into the Parisian night. She should have thought of a different example. To remind him of her presence, she leans against his side. Grasping her shoulders, he turns her to him, bends to nuzzle her neck.
   Her happiness is also exquisite, excruciating, barbed with fear. At any moment, it will be taken from her.