Door Ding Quotes

The bell over the door dinged signaling a customer. Caeden groaned. “And just when I was going to have my wicked way with you.” -Caeden

Dit programma werd mogelijk gemaakt door Beemsterkaas, maar vooral door de maffia, mondje dicht hè.

Mallory, I lo—" "Wait!" This was from Amy, and she looked at Mallory. "I'm sorry, but don't you think you should tell him about the car before he finishes that sentence?" "No," Mallory said, giving Amy the evil eye. She wanted the rest of Ty's sentence, dammit! Ty frowned. "What's wrong with the Shelby?" "Nothing," Mallory said quickly. "Nothing," Amy agreed. "Except for the dinged door where she parked too close to the mailbox." "Oh my God," Mallory said to her. "What are you, the car police?" "The classic car police," Amy said smugly. "You parked the Shelby on the street?" Ty asked Mallory incredulously. She went brows-up. "Okay," he said, lifting his hands. "It's okay. Never mind about the car.

I'm just a tiny elevator made for transporting one or two people, max - but every floor, someone's dinging my buttons, and suddenly I'm crammed with people and now my doors won't shut.

When I heard the ding of the diner door, I spun to see a mob of teenagers heading our way, and let me tell you, for a girl who’s gone to a private all-girls school since the seventh grade, that’s a pretty scary sight.

I recorded the ding-dong sound that shoplifting sensors at the doors of Wal-Mart make. Now I just stand at the exit and press play as people try to leave.

Van één ding zijn we zeker : dat we mensen zijn, stof onder de sterren. En dat alle menselijke geluk en alle menselijke leed door mensen veroorzaakt wordt.

The door dings. I glance out and realize we are at the foyer again. A lady is standing there looking at us. She's holding a small shivering dog and they both look horrified. I follow her gaze to my shredded panties lying on the floor of the elevator.

Weet ik iets zeker? Er is een ding dat ik zeker weet. Er is sprake van een verbijsterende liefde en van een ongelofelijk mooi aanbod dat 'leven' heet. En helaas wordt dit aanbod niet door genoeg mensen erkend als iets buitengewoon schoons. Er zijn genoeg mensen die zelfs hun status verkrijgen en geld verdienen aan het actief ontkennen van dat gevoel.

The Finch doorbell was a mystical instrument; it was possible to tell the state of mind of whoever pushed it. When it said dee-ding! Jean Louise knew Henry was outside bearing down happily. She hurried to the door.

I hurled myself under the covers, naked and half wet, grabbing my phone on the way. - don't come nevermind - I heard a phone dine from the living room and, soon after, a voice so close it shocked me. "Too late," Jonathan said. "Your front door was open." -go away - a blast of cold air hit me as the covers were moved, and in the next breath, I caught his new scent. He pulled the covers over us just as his phone dinged. He pressed his front to my back, spooning me, this clothes taking on the dampness I hadn't gotten around to toweling off. "I'm sorry Monica. He put his face in my wet hair and draped his arm around me. "Ah. What's this text I have here? It says go away." I sniffled. He slid his arm under my neck and held the phone in front of our faces with both hands. His breath tickled my ear. "Let me text back. Hang on." -I'd rather be here for you - I waited for it to appear on my phone. He nuzzled into the hair pooling at the back of my neck as i typed back. - And then what? - His fingers flew across the glass. - And let's talk about the rest later. Today, you are the goddess my universe revolves around. -

dat ook het meest sluitende systeem en het meest universele rationalisme ten slotte altijd stoot op het irrationele van het menselijk denken. Geen enkele ironische evidentie, geen enkele belachelijke tegenspraak, die de rede in diskrediet brengt, ontgaat hem. Slechts één ding interesseert hem en wel de uitzondering, of deze nu door de geschiedenis van het hart of van de geest voorkomt.[...] Hij stelt om te beginnen vast dat er geen absolute waarheid bestaat...

One of my favorite Christian authors, Sheldon Vanauken, a friend of C. S. Lewis, said years ago that when you get a new car you should also get a hammer. Take that hammer and go out and put the first dent in the brand new car yourself. Then you’re not afraid to use it anymore. That way you don’t have to park at the end of the parking lot to protect from door dings, because you’ve already put the first dent in it yourself. Vanauken’s point was this: things are not to be loved, they’re to be used. The corollary to that is this: people are not to be used, they’re to be loved.

Sam pushed open the door without waiting for my answer. A wonderful wave of new-book smell came rushing out, reminding me immediately of Christmas. My parents always got me books for Christmas. With a melodic ding, the shop door swung shut behind us, and Sam released my hand. “Where to? I’ll buy you a book. I know you want one.

On a construction site sabotage could be potentially deadly. Alarm jumped through her. “Is anyone hurt?” “No, thankfully. But… I need to be there.” “Then go. I’ve got my communicator and everyone knows I’m yours now anyway.” She liked saying that she was his. He liked it as well if the smoldering look he gave her was any indication. As the elevator made a soft ding, she leaned up and kissed him, not caring about the public affection. He didn’t seem to mind either as he deepened the kiss for a little longer than was probably publicly acceptable. When the doors opened, there were two males inside who didn’t appear to be getting off— until Con growled at them. Without pause, they politely stepped off and let her get on. Even though there was enough room for about twenty warriors, apparently Con was feeling extra protective today. She bit back a smile and blew him a kiss goodbye in full view of the two males. To her surprise his ears tinged red. It was the last thing she saw before the doors closed. A short laugh escaped as she pressed the correct floor.

Toen gebeurde het dat zijn grootmoeder voortijdig overleed; gebeurtenissen zijn immers niets anders dan onmogelijkse tijden en onmogelijke plaatsen, je wordt op een verkeerde plaats neergelegd of vergeten en je bent zo machteloos als een ding dat door wordt opgeraapt. Ook wat veel later gebeurde, gebeurt duizenden keren op de wereld, en het was alleen niet te begrijpen dat het Tonka overkwam. De dokter verscheen dus, de lijkbezorgeres kwamen, de overlijdensakte werd ingevuld en grootmama begraven - het een volgde heel gladjes op het andere zoals dat nou eenmaal hoort in een nette familie. De erfenis werd geregeld; je mocht blij zijn dat je daaraan niet mee hoefde te doen; slechts een enkel punt in de nalatenschap vereiste de aandacht: de verzorging van juffrouw Tonka met de prachtige achternaam, die een van die Tsjechische familienamen was die 'hij zong' of 'hij kwam over de weide' betekenen. Er was een arbeisovereenkomst. Het meisje zou behalve haar loon, dat laag was, voor elk voltooid dienstjaar met een bepaald bedrag in de erfenis bedacht worden, en omdat men met een vrij lang ziekbed van grootmama rekening had gehouden en, overeenkomstig de te verwachten steeds moeilijker wordende verpleging een langzaam oplopend bedrag had vastgesteld, leidde dat ertoe dat het geringe bedrag op een jong iemand een stuitende indruk moest maken, als hij de opgeofferde maanden van Tonka's jeugd in minuten zou omrekenen.

Back in bed I listen to every sound. The plastic tarp over the table on the balcony crunching in the cold wind. the two short clicks in the walls before the heat comes on with a low whoosh. I hear a constant base hum all around, the nervous system of the building, carrying electricity and gas and phone conversations to all our respective little boxes. I listen to it all, the constant, the rhythmic, and the random. It's hard to measure the night by sound, but it can be done. I know that when the traffic noise is quietest, it's about 4:30 in the morning. I know that when the 'Times' hits the door, it's around 5. Now the clock says it's morning, 5:45, but the November sky still says midnight. I hear the elevator ding twenty yards down the hall outside our door. Seven seconds later, I hear his keys in our lock, then his heavy backpack hitting the floor. I hear the refrigerator door open, the unsealing vacuum wheezing as the cold inside air meets the dry heat in the apartment. The cupboard door. A glass. The crescendoing fizz of a new two-liter Diet Coke bottle opening. It's a one-sided conversation with no one actually talking. I lie in the dark, close my eyes, and try not to listen to his movements around apartment. these are the sounds of our life together before it got so messy. I want to say something back. Anything, anything that sounds like things sounded last summer. Even just to myself. Just something out loud. The inside of my eyelids turn pink. My door has been opened and the light from the hallway shines through them. I won't open them. There is no noise. Like an eclipse, the world behind my closed eyes goes dark again. For just one second, before I feel a kiss on my right eye. I keep them closed. A kiss on the left one. I open them. Jack looks down at me and closes his eyes. He leans forward and puts his forehead on my chest and goes limp. ''Blues Clues' is on,' he says softly into my tee shirt. His muffled voice vibrating only a half inch away from my heart.

Cage gestured to my running leg. “Testing a new leg?” I shook my head. “Underwear.” His brow wrinkled and the guys behind him inched a bit closer, ears perked. “What?” Cage asked. “My favorite underwear has been discontinued. I’m trying a new brand and the best way to test them out is to go for a jog. I want to know before I buy ten pairs if they’re going to ride up on me. I’m not a thong girl. I don’t like anything shoved up my ass.” His cheeks turned red while taking a hard swallow. The fishing crew tried and failed to hide their chuckling. One of the guys slapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll meet you out front.” He cleared his throat. “Our condolences on the ass news.” That sparked a new round of laughter as the guys piled onto the elevator. When the doors shut, Cage pursed his lips and sighed. “Thanks for that.” I shrugged. “What?” “What …” It’s possible his intention was to be serious or maybe upset, but he couldn’t finish his thought without rubbing his hand over his mouth to hide his smirk. “You don’t like ‘anything shoved up your ass.’ Really, Lake?” Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he shook his head. “So you’re big into fishing, huh?” “Don’t change the subject.” He narrowed his eyes at me. Too bad he still couldn’t keep a straight face. It would have given his case a lot more merit. Those were favorite moments of mine, when he was ninety percent sure my actions were an embarrassing side effect of my Sahara Desert humor, yet still ten percent holy-shit-she’s-serious. I loved that ten percent. I worked my ass off for that ten percent. “I’m sorry, what was the subject? Oh yeah, things I don’t like in my crack. Sounds like a Jeopardy category or a Family Feud survey. ‘Name something Lake Jones does not like up her crack. Underwear. Survey says? Ding ding ding … ninety-four people surveyed said underwear, the other six said cock. And I do believe those six lascivious idiots are downstairs waiting for you.” Cage observed me; it was never just a stare or a lingering look. His eyes narrowed a fraction, but never lost their sparkle. The wetting of his lips was always followed by biting them together like he refused to speak until he’d figured me out. And just before he spoke, his dimples surrendered to his impending grin. “I’m going to text you an address. Meet me there in three hours.” “What if I haven’t sorted through this underwear situation by then?” My head tilted to the side as my poker face slipped a bit, revealing my own impending grin. “Hmm …” He pulled me to him, his hands easing into the back of my running shorts. “Don’t fret over it,” he whispered before sucking my earlobe into his mouth. My lips parted, and eyes closed, as I held onto his biceps to keep my knees from buckling. “Panties are optional.” Three words and my knees buckled. Thankfully—not really thankful at all—he fisted the back of my new panties and yanked up. My hero? No. The wedgie was underway a few seconds before my knees gave out. I gasped. He smirked. “I think you should consider getting used to the idea—the feeling—of something in that sexy ass of yours.” Not much left me speechless, but my first non-brother-male-induced wedgie left me with cow eyes and a numb tongue. He winked just before the elevator doors shut.

picked up the first volume that came to hand. It was on Van Gogh, and the picture at which the book opened was “The Chair”—that astounding portrait of a Ding an Sich, which the mad painter saw, with a kind of adoring terror, and tried to render on his canvas. But it was a task to which the power even of genius proved wholly inadequate. The chair Van Gogh had seen was obviously the same in essence as the chair I had seen.

Weet ik iets zeker? Er is een ding dat ik zeker weet. Er is sprake van een verbijsterende liefde en van een ongelofelijk mooi aanbod dat ''leven'' heet. En helaas wordt dit aanbod niet door genoeg mensen erkend als buitengewoon schoon en kwetsbaar. Er zijn teveel mensen die hun status ontlenen en geld verdienen aan het ontkennen en tegenwerken van dat gevoel.

Weet ik iets zeker? Er is een ding dat ik zeker weet. Er is sprake van een verbijsterende liefde en van een ongelofelijk mooi aanbod dat 'leven' heet. En helaas wordt dit aanbod niet door genoeg mensen erkend als buitengewoon schoon en kwetsbaar. Er zijn teveel mensen die dat gevoel actief ontkennen en tegenwerken, en daarmee hun geld verdienen of daaraan hun status ontlenen.

Weet ik iets zeker? Er is een ding dat ik zeker weet. Er is sprake van een verbijsterende liefde en van een ongelofelijk mooi aanbod dat 'leven' heet. En helaas wordt dit aanbod niet door genoeg mensen erkend als buitengewoon schoon en kwetsbaar. Er zijn zelfs mensen die dat gevoel actief ontkennen en tegenwerken, en daaraan veel geld verdienen.

Weet ik iets zeker? Er is een ding dat ik zeker weet. Er is sprake van een verbijsterende liefde en van een ongelofelijk mooi aanbod dat 'leven' heet. En helaas wordt dit aanbod niet door genoeg mensen erkend als iets buitengewoon schoons. Er zijn genoeg mensen die zelfs hun status verkrijgen en geld verdienen aan het actief ontkennen van dat gevoel. ― Herman van Veen

A bell dinged and Gator opened the oven door and pulled out the rolls. Their yeasty, warm smell filled the air and made her stomach grumble. He dumped them into a large wicker basket, brought them to the table and offered her one. “Ladies first.” His

Nu kwam ik tot het besef dat boeken niet zelden over boeken spreken, met andere woorden dat het is alsof ze met elkaar spreken. In het licht van deze overweging kwam de bibliotheek mij nog onrustbarender voor. Het was dus de plaats van een lange, een eeuwenlange fluistering, van een onhoorbare dialoog tussen perkamenten, een levend ding, een vergaarplaats van niet door een menselijk brein te beheersen krachten, schatkamer van geheimen ontsproten aan ontelbare breinen, geheimen die degenen die ze hadden geproduceerd of doorgegeven, hadden overleefd.

have had tenants ruin ovens when cleaning them, shatter shower doors, and even break windows with odd objects. Even with this litany of dings and cracks, when I step back and look at the cost of repairing one window, replacing a few boards on a fence, or even losing a used oven, keeping the good tenant long term is usually worth it. The lifetime value of a customer, especially one writing a four-figure check like clockwork every month for several years, far outweighs the cost or inconvenience of the minor repair.

I’m not joking. I am so sick of men, I can’t even tell you. I’m sick of their dimples and their rock hard abs and their ridiculously hot bodies. They make it so I can’t think – even though I know what the right thing to do is. I want to rip their hair right off their heads.” The door to the elevator dinged and swung open. I strode in and turned to the girls that were still standing there waiting. “We’ll get the next one,” one of them said quickly. Yup, I was coming across as deranged.

Before Oliver could say anything to her that morning, his phone dinged. Garland frowned. He lifted it to see that it was a text from Zoey. I'm on a quest. Do you know where I can find a copy of Dancing with the Dellawisps? He watched Garland turn her head slightly toward the open French doors, surreptitiously looking for Cooper. Oliver quickly typed a response. There's this great thing called The Internet, ever heard if it? She answered before he could put away his phone. College graduate AND a comedian. You're such a Renaissance man. Oliver smiled despite himself and he felt his shoulders relax a little.

The elevator finally dinged, and the door slid open like a heaven-sent escape route. Or, as Bowen filed in behind me, a hell-sent metal box of sexual purgatory

DING DONG! Creeeeak! The door to the old house opened a crack. “Trick or Treat!” Ellie, Jessica, and Fez said in unison as they held out their candy buckets. Squeak! Squeak!

Zen is Buddhism made simple again. The robes worn by Zen priests are plain black affairs (unlike the colorful getups favored by the Tibetans and their other Buddhist cousins), and even after receiving Transmission, the Zen master's daily dress is a dull brown robe. You can sit anywhere; Dogen Zenji said that the heart is the real zendo. This informs temple architecture. Plainness here is neither false humility nor a facade. It is true to the bone. Skeletal beams and rafters are seamlessly joined; they are not nailed or screwed into place; they are made to fit together. Inside a zendo, there is mostly open space, dimly lit, with a small central altar and a tan, a two-foot-high wooden platform built around the perimeter, where meditators sit on plain black cushions, facing the wall. There are few ceremonial objects—the teacher's staff, a stick of incense burning in a bowl—and it is rare to run into more than one or two bronze or wooden Buddhas. Zen rituals are spare, too. Music is reduced to an isolated ding or bong of a bell, the flat report of a mallet tapped against a slab of wood, and a thrumming bang from a giant bass drum. Even the chanting is monochromatic; students pitch their voices toward the deep, dark end of the register and grumble in unison.

The wind and breaking waves are drowned by a dull symphony of locker doors and hidden stores swaying and banging in the surging waters within Rose-Noëlle’s hull—gush-ding-thump-bump-claptack-thump-crack-slosh-ding-ting-glump-bumpbump. . . . The noises create what we call audio mirages. Voices spring from our subconscious, lulling us into daydreams and slumber in which the clamor of our prison becomes background conversations, soft sweet singing, announcers on the radio, the beat of reggae.

My room is cheerfully located between the sixth-floor elevators. The springs of my bed wheeze. The elevator dings. The ice machine right outside my door rumbles forth its icy bounty, a steady tattoo that beats “Stay up! Stay up!” I am in a canvas that Edward Hopper never felt bummed out enough to paint.

Weet ik iets zeker? Er is een ding dat ik zeker weet. Er is sprake van een verbijsterende liefde en van een ongelofelijk mooi aanbod dat 'leven' heet. En helaas wordt dit aanbod niet door genoeg mensen erkend als buitengewoon schoon en kwetsbaar. Er zijn genoeg mensen die zelfs hun status verkrijgen en geld verdienen aan het actief ontkennen van dat gevoel.

Weet ik iets zeker? Er is een ding dat ik zeker weet. Er is sprake van een verbijsterende liefde en van een ongelofelijk mooi aanbod dat 'leven' heet. En helaas wordt dit aanbod niet door genoeg mensen erkend als buitengewoon schoon en kwetsbaar. Er zijn teveel mensen die dat gevoel actief ontkennen en tegenwerken, en daarmee veel geld verdienen.” ― Herman van Veen

Weet ik iets zeker? Er is een ding dat ik zeker weet. Er is sprake van een verbijsterende liefde en van een ongelofelijk mooi aanbod dat 'leven' heet. En helaas wordt dit aanbod niet door genoeg mensen erkend als buitengewoon schoon en kwetsbaar. Er zijn teveel mensen die dat gevoel actief ontkennen en tegenwerken, en daaraan veel geld verdienen.” ― Herman van Veen

Weet ik iets zeker? Er is een ding dat ik zeker weet. Er is sprake van een verbijsterende liefde en van een ongelofelijk mooi aanbod dat 'leven' heet. En helaas wordt dit aanbod niet door genoeg mensen erkend als buitengewoon schoon en kwetsbaar. Er zijn teveel mensen die dat gevoel actief ontkennen en tegenwerken, en daaraan veel geld verdienen.

Geen betere plek om het getier van een oproerig geheugen te smoren dan de keuken waar het licht neutraal naar binnen valt en ieder ding zich door een jarenlange dagelijkse sleur hanteren laat zolang ik me maar niet herinner hoe jij hier na die eerste nacht gestaan hebt als een tussen potten en pannen verdwaalde boom die zijn kruin naar me overboog en zijn takken om me heen sloeg of hij me nooit meer los zou laten. -uit : De Rots Van Gibraltar

The bell dings, and when the doors open, I twist to see how our party is faring, but Liam grabs my hand, yanking me inside. That renders me completely speechless, as does him pushing the red Stop button once those doors close. The box jolts to a halt, and in a flash, he’s pinning me against the wall. His lingering gaze cages me as successfully as his formidable frame. He threads his fingers into my hair, swiping his thumb across my cheekbone. Searching. “Was this you tonight, Carver?

The elevator finally dinged, and the door slid open like a heaven-sent escape route. Or, as Bowen filed in behind me, a hell-sent metal box of sexual purgatory.

But the minute the elevator doors close, Crew runs his nose up the side of my leg, inhaling the scent of coconut tanning oil and my sweat before he drops the pillow and bites my ass. I can’t help it. I suck in a gasp, gushing wetness between my squeezed-together thighs. And as the ding sounds for our floor, Crew pushes his fingers between my legs, tucking just inside the lining of my bikini bottoms and dragging over my arousal before he brings those fingers to his lips and sucks them loudly. “Fuck yeah. That’s a good fucking girl. Now, let me clean you up.

Allison thought back to the last dinner she’d shared with Portia and her husband. Alcohol had flowed freely before, during and after. Neither husband nor wife had appeared drunk, at least not the falling-down variety, but their tongues had loosened, they’d become more touchy-feely, their conversation more risqué and, like most inebriated people, they’d become rather boring. Not a heavy drinker, Allison was only ever mildly tipsy. That day, though, she was planning to get totally blotto. The chime of the doorbell, a prosaic ding-dong that matched the house and not the flamboyant owner, brought both their attention towards the doorway to the hall. ‘That’ll be lunch.’ Portia got to her feet, leaving the room in a flash of pink. She popped her head around the edge of the door

Door de pijnlijke wending die mijn leven onverwachts had genomen, de afgelopen jaren, wist ik één ding: ik wilde leven. Ik wilde blijven leven, en liefhebben, met mijn armen open zoals mijn moeder altijd door het leven was gegaan. En gezond blijven en genieten van dat leven en die gezondheid, samen met al die lieve mensen om me heen en samen met het verdriet. Verdriet gaat niet weg, maar het raakt op de achtergrond wanneer je hoofd en je hart nieuwe herinneringen en ervaringen krijgen. Het is echt zo: de scherpe randies gaan ervanaf. ledereen krijgt zijn portie, vroeg of laat. Het gaat er niet om wat er op je bordje komt, het gaat erom hoe je met dat volle bordje omgaat. Ik hoefde het verdriet om mijn moeder ook niet langer op te lossen, zoals ik liefdesverdriet altijd had willen oplossen, zoals ik mijn carrière altijd had willen regelen, zoals ik altijd mijn hele leven had willen regisseren. Ik neem mijn verdriet mee, onder mijn arm, welke vorm het ook in de toekomst zal aannemen.

The sex wasn’t even sex.  It was a cover job, like bad paint over a door ding.  A boredom comb over.  Assisted masturbation.  Anyhow, you get the point.  But it was good in its innocence.  Not in the cheating on your husband innocence.  That wasn’t innocence.  But the pure playful almost unapologetically silliness of it all like two adult kids playing hide and go seek but with their genitals.

They pedaled silently to Tropical Kiss, Natalie praying they’d find Ashley. Her stomach constricted as they pulled up to the juice bar. It didn’t appear to be open. They stopped their bikes and got off. Natalie squinted at the door, looking for the business hours. Twisting the doorknob, she was surprised to find it unlocked. She pushed it inward, a bell hanging from the door dinging. “Hello?

The Doors shuddered, then opened with a pleasant Ding!

My phone dinged, and I glanced at the text message. Beau: Ash, I’m sorry. Please tell me where ur at. I clicked ignore and kept heading toward the football field. Right before I reached the gate entrance, headlights illuminated the darkness behind me. I didn’t stop walking. If it was Beau, and I was pretty sure it was, I needed to get away from him. I wanted to cry, and I couldn’t cry with him around to watch. His truck door slammed, and I heard his feet running on the gravel. I’d never be able to outrun him, but I could try. “Ash, I’m sorry.” His arms came around me before I could break into a run. “Beau, let me go. I want to be alone. I’ll call Sawyer, and he can pick me up later and take me home.” “No,” he replied. “That wasn’t a yes or no question. It was a demand. Now leave.” “Ash, you’ve got to listen to me. I didn’t mean anything I said. I was just trying to see the fire behind your eyes. I’ve missed it, and I selfishly lashed out knowing you’d get angry. I was wrong, and I’m so, so sorry. Please.” He buried his head in the crook of my neck and took a deep breath. If I had any intention of staying mad at him, it flew right out the window when he did something so vulnerable as nuzzling my neck. “So you don’t consider this a babysitting job in which Sawyer ‘owes you one’?” I asked in a much softer tone than I’d been using. “God no, you know that,” he replied, still nuzzling my neck. He threaded his fingers through mine. “And asking for me as your spirit girl wasn’t some great service you did for him? Because I can refuse to do it, and you can ask for another girl.” He stilled, then made a trail of kisses up my neck to my ear. “The thought of you doing things for Sawyer on game day is hard enough. I couldn’t imagine you making cookies for some other guy and decorating his locker and kissing his cheek at the pep rally. The only spirit girl I’ll ever want is you.

Wow. You gotta come look at this guy. Seriously. He is freaking hot.” The bell above the door at the front of the shop dinged again. “Okay, now I’m a two-timing bitch,” Brittney declared, “because another guy just walked in and I’m totally in love with him, too.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Moving my mouth by her ear, I whisper, “Showtime, wifey.