History of Wolves: A Novel by Emily Fridlund:
I’d been creeping faster than she was moving away the whole time. Now I was just inches from her. There she stood, with her reeking morning breath and kitty-litter knees. I could tell by the look in her eye that she was riding just the surface of her brain, bobbing on that chippy surface of hope and worry, so on impulse I kissed her on the lips, hating her purely in that instant, wanting to do more than that, to hurt her, to get something back. Her lips were cool and flat, unresponsive. They didn’t seem like lips.