Cilla Quotes

Better, Cilla thought, to be alone on a quiet night than to be alone in a crowd. Much better.

I don't even know if I want to shag him." Cilla rolled her eyes dramatically. "Of course you do," she said. "You can lie about your feelings all you want, but for God's sake, let's not lie about that.

One condition,” Cilla sniffled through a joyful smile. “We are not naming our child after any of your grandfather’s fonts.” “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Gaz said. “The only other one that crackpot invented was called the Serif of Nottingham.

You’re mine, Cilla. See it when you clean my cum off your thighs. Remember it when your cunt throbs as you try to sleep tonight. Know it. And know that you loved it. That you came so hard you couldn’t fucking stand when it was finished. And most importantly,” he leans in even closer so his mouth is touching my ear, “know that I know.

You don't want some tacky Vegas fly-by. You're serious. You're serious about friendships, about your work, your family. You're serious about Star Wars, and you active dislike of Jar Jar Binks---" "Well, God. Come on, anyone who---" "You're serious," she continued before he went on a Jar Jar rant, "about living your life on your terms, and being easygoing doesn't negate that one bit. You're serious about what kind of kryptonite is more lethal to Superman." "You have to go with the classic green. I told you, the gold can strip Kryptonians' powers permanently, but---"... ..."Mkae all the lists you want, Cilla. Love? It's green kryptonite. it powers out all the rest.

That would make it easy for Amara. Not having a choice was always easy. It was always safer. However bad things were, you kept your head down and did as you were told in order to avoid worse. The world always wanted people like her to believe those lies. You were never safe as long as you were at someone else’s whim. Amara’s eyes met Cilla’s, dark and beaten and haunted. Not having a choice was the worst thing in the world. Amara pushed the knife down. Nolan didn’t stop her. And in that moment, with her enemy’s knife in her own hand, a point pressing on Cilla’s arm, Cilla’s skin familiar against hers, relief sneaked up on her and refused to let go. Because what she’d told Cilla wasn’t true. It wasn’t that she couldn’t go back to her old life; she could. If she went back, she’d hate herself, but it meant survival. It might be worth it or it might not be, and she’d never have to find out because it would never happen. She wasn’t going back. It wasn’t because of what Maart wanted, or because of what Cilla asked, or because of what Jorn said. She’d made the choice. It was hers alone. This or nothing. Blood welled up from Cilla’s arm. Amara let the knife clatter to the ground. She reached for the cut. She was almost smiling now, a desperate smile that had her lips trembling, that came with tears burning her eyes. This or nothing.

I believe that life is for living. Every moment. That's what it's all about.

You can’t just take me.” “Really? Why not? Who’s going to stop me?” he asks before shoving me into the backseat and sliding in beside me. Hugo closes the door and Kill turns to me. “I can do whatever I want, Cilla.” He watches me intently. Hugo starts to drive. “You’re self-destructing,” he says. “What do you care? You walked away.” “That bar is filthy. Fucking a limp-dick stranger in a bathroom stall? That’s not you.” “You don’t know me.” “I know everything about you. I know your deepest, darkest secrets. And I know you need a hero. A dark one.

There was a day when one could honestly and innocently enjoy the sheer pleasure of a good sticky toffee pudding; when ice cream was nice cream and Bakewell tart really was baked well. Tastes change, though, and the world of the sweet has often been sour, having to go through some dramatic overhaulage in order to keep pace. Whilst a straightforward sausage and a common kedgeree maintain their hold on the nation’s culinary choices, the pudding has to stay on its toes to tantalise our taste buds. From low fat through to no fat, from sugar free through to taste free; what the next stage is we can only wait and see…’ CILLA BUBB. Don’t Desert Your Desserts

her arm, winked at her sister, and hurried out. “Well, come on.” Althea stormed to the door. “Let’s get going.” “Fine.” Cilla sauntered past her, then started down the steps. Althea was nearly to the bottom before she realized she’d been conned. The two sisters had pulled off the good cop/bad cop routine like pros. Now her stomach jumped. There were flowers everywhere, banks of color and scent. There was music, soft, romantic. She saw Colt’s mother leaning heavily against his father and smiling bravely through a mist of tears. She saw Natalie beaming and dabbing at her eyes. Deborah, her lashes wet, cradling Adrianna. There was Boyd, reaching out to take Cilla’s hand, kissing her damp cheek before looking back at Althea to give her an encouraging wink. Althea came to a dead stop. If people cried at weddings, she deduced,

Grandpa Jenkins was saying something to me, but I wasn’t sure what, when I jumped up from the couch and ran to the bathroom, and started to be maybe a little bit sick. And it didn’t feel good, and my nose was stuffy, and I could feel my eyes hot and crying a little, and would my Grandpa Jenkins wrinkle his nose and think I was gross, and where was my mom, and— “Shhh, it’s okay.” I felt cool hands softly pulling my hair away from my forehead. “It’s okay, Cilla, I’m here,” my Grandpa said, rubbing my back. “Get it out, I’ll sit with you until it’s over.” “You…,” I said, sniffing, “you don’t have to. I’m okay.” “Don’t be Silly,” he said, in a nice, calm-sounding voice, rubbing my back with his hand. “Of course I won’t leave you.” “Oh,” I said. When I was done being sick (which I’ll admit, was more than a little gross), Grandpa Jenkins took a washcloth and helped me wash my face and hands. Then he patted me dry and carried me back to the couch, which I didn’t even know he could do, it’s been so long since he’s carried me. He tucked me in and showed me a trick where you tuck the blankets underneath the couch cushions to make them snug and tight, which felt nice and made me giggle, because he has A LOT of opinions on how to tuck in sheets and make a bed Just Right. Grandpa Jenkins sat down, but didn’t take out his crossword this time. “Now,” he said, “what’s happening here? Dancing mice, huh?” So I explained how they only dance after they’ve saved the world, and we watched a whole two more episodes, and when the bad guy came on-screen, Grandpa Jenkins gasped and agreed that he was pretty scary (he has the head of a lion, after all). And I was impressed.

into

Cilla . . . a dolorous memory

Cilla fought not just as a woman but as the thing she kept at bay. Her adrenaline was off the charts, and her emotions had fluctuated between fear and rage. The ebb and flow felt like a tsunami she was incapable of controlling. The chaos she held on to so tightly was now loose, and the man who unlocked the door was now its victim. Cilla’s magic rose to the surface and erupted in a blinding display of rage.

That would make it easy for Amara not having a choice was always easy. It was always safer. However bad things were, you kept your head down and did as you were told in order to avoid worse. The world always want to people like her to believe those lies. You were always safe as long as you were at someone else's whim. Amara's eyes met Cilla's, dark and beaten and haunted. Not having a choice was the worst thing in the world.

It was flattering to see Hannah watch me, studying how I ordered the next round or sent something back if I wasn’t satisfied. Donato watched too. Was this when I ordered a bottle of prosecco? Yes, because he had finally stopped trying to charm and embarrass me as if I were a granny. And because I liked the way he slouched into his chair, one arm outstretched over the back of mine, another button undone on his shirt so I could peek at the skin beneath, the smattering of springy dark hair at its center. He is so sinewy and long. Like a wild animal, like a well-exercised show horse. His toothy grin said it, those flashing eyes said it too—I know what you’re thinking. It humored him, gave him pleasure. And I didn’t mind giving in, letting him know that I admired his profile. And Hannah seemed pleased to share his attention with me—the kind of satisfaction one gets from ordering correctly from the menu. After the bottle of prosecco she wanted to hear stories about when her mother and I were young—about those long-ago parties. Mom and Cilla were hanging out with famous writers and actors before they were old enough to walk, she bragged to Donato.

I’m remembering now that Hannah had said something to Donato this afternoon, while we were trying on clothes at an expensive shop near the Piazza di Spagna, on the crowded Via Condotti. The saleswoman knew Donato well, taking his hands in hers. She picked out outfits for each of us to try on, and I remember being in one of the fitting rooms, deciding if a silk crepe dress could make me look sultry or not, when I heard Hannah tell Donato, My mom and Cilla did not get along. How much could a child know? She was so young during those first few incidents, and then there was a period where we just didn’t see each other. Cards and presents were mailed, always on time. There were a handful of get-togethers for Mom’s birthday, Emily and I were civil to each other by then. Strangers, sure. But perfectly civil. What had Emily said to Hannah about me, about Guy, about our dad’s final days?

I take a drag on the joint and exhale just as Hannah comes out with the aperitifs. “Aunt Cilla!” she cries. “I can’t believe Donato got you to smoke pot!” Her amusement embarrasses me and I try to sit up taller, straighten my blouse and slacks. But twilight is finally waning, evening is almost here, and my eyes are having a hard time adjusting to the change in light. “I’m hungry,” comes Donato’s voice, and then Hannah has switched places with him, wiggling in close. “Sorry it took me so long, Papa called. I said we were seeing a movie.

Donato, Donato,” Hannah calls, waving. He comes over to us, kisses his mother and her friend on their cheeks. They laugh and smile, slapping him playfully when he flatters them in Italian. I can tell Hannah is waiting for her turn. She blushes when he spins her. “Bellissima.” He whistles. When he looks at me it’s with the same calculated charm. Only he’s quick about it, he does not mention the silk crepe dress I’m wearing, the one from the shop on Via Condotti. He does offer me a cigarette. “Cilla doesn’t smoke,” Hannah reminds him. He smirks. “Ah, sì. I forget. Ready to go in?” He gives us wristbands that will get us free drinks, and then ushers us from the line, past the bouncers and into the club. It is an instant assault of grinding bodies, of a thick, not unpleasant heat. Flashing lights—blue, white, pink, purple. I can’t make anything out. And then Hannah and her girlfriends are gone. Donato too. I look around, but I’ve been left with Marie and her friend. “Donato reserved us a booth,” Marie shouts to me, and signals that I should follow her. I push my way through the crowd. Everywhere are women, most not older than thirty, all of them red-lipped and kohl-eyed, with delicate sloping noses, bare shoulders and legs. They are dancing almost on top of one another, their teeth bright white and perfect. A bartender comes by with shots for anyone who will kiss him. Marie’s friend leaves a fat lip print on either cheek. Bacio, bacio, she mouths to me. I shake my head. No, thank you. A waitress takes us past a velvet rope, to a big round booth where a bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of ice. Marie and her friend are beaming. Marie leans over to me. “Is this like Los Angeles clubs?

Emily had been the only one home when we first had sex. I remember hearing her shouting from the deck. Cilla? Cilla? But I was down on the beach—Guy’s fingers pulling at my underwear, struggling with a condom. I barely had to do anything at all. Cilla, where are you? My sister’s voice, carried by the wind. “I haven’t been feeling very well,” I blurt out. “What’s wrong, flu? Those tourist sites are cesspools.” His concern is real, but his tenderness only makes me sadder because it isn’t the kind that’s between two lovers. Our relationship changed sometime after Dad got sick, or maybe right before. I was so busy with medications and doctor appointments and physical therapy and grocery shopping and cooking that I missed when it happened. A gradual shift, like the changing of a tide.

Hey, Berta? Remember how I said he looked kind of scruffy and rough at first?" "Yeah. It looks like we were wrong, Cilla." Dangerous and wild men unafraid to take big risks are sooo hot! ❤️

The sight brought a painful sensation Cilla could neither name nor explain. It was like a longing, worse than anything she had ever experienced, but for what she had no idea. Something tremendous waited out there. Something wonderful was going to happen, and she was terrified that she would miss it.

She chose well,” Cilla said in a voice I had never heard before, filling the room with a strange, bell-like echo. The room almost shook with the sound, and a vast, invisible presence stretched out over us both. “You were and are worthy of My daughter. She was so broken. Keep mending her, Alpha.” I gasped, filled with awe and no small amount of fright.