78 13 12
|
Her fingers hold the white curtains and the light blue drapes. Her hand is steady. Her heart is not.
|
52263
|
The guide moved along to the next piece of art but I couldn’t seem to pull my eyes from David’s form. He sparked something within me, his sculpted details made me smile in guilty pleasure and I wasn’t ready to leave him yet.
|
116200
|
This summer they had reached their fifth anniversary, the landmark they’d dubbed the Bacchanal year. Instead of exchanging gifts made of wood, they’d bought expensive wines and champagnes and emancipated their bodies of clothing for two straight days. The
|
96112
|
the Atlantic fucking Ocean between them
|
59107
|
“Can you let the love win?” she asked.
A reasonable question.
|
254043
|
~our silly cosmology of visceral pleasure~
|
447114
|
Her head wriggled towards me and there was a smell. An unusual smell. Not bad. Just unusual. It was hard to concentrate.
|
126832
|
‘Hmph! Dream indeed! “Past the wit of man to say what dream it was” - the man's a knotty-pated arse.' The old master-weaver spat into the fire, his rheumy eyes bright with contempt, then looked round furtively; Nathaniel was not yet returned,…
|
3900
|
His only weakness, Flo notes, is the ice-cream headache.
|
154332
|
The first door on the right is the bedroom. Even if I try to forget; my body remembers and the strength of its yearning fairly pulls me inside. I noticed you left the door ajar. Really you should be more careful.
|
25865
|
Here is what we patients call the death ward. The third floor, left wing, C. We’ve gone terminal. Our wishes have been sent on to that great foundation in the sky. We have AIDS, Cancer, Brain Tumors, Genetic Heart Disorders and more Cancer. If you have go
|
23767
|
Now it was, distorted as it was through the sepia tones of mourning. It's that sweet spot - the place where fantasy and memory collide. It's what makes reality livable.
|
11132
|
I didn't know it at the time, but when our eyes closed and our lips met, we were both fantasizing about Derek Carter.
|
111820
|
You beckon me with an aperitif.
The Kir Royal tingles, its bubbles tickling my nose.
Its subtle black courant pulls me into your smile.
I drink from your lips the champagne-tingle of your kiss.
|
12951
|
Kyle showed up the next day for the funeral. And he brought a friend. Most of the morning had gone by in a blur, the endless Mass, the burial. I couldn't get past the feeling that I was playing a part in a movie, the mourning daughter. I was on…
|
