Ecru Quotes

Still, ecru. It’s like if you couldn’t decide on white or beige and combined the two for maximum blandness.

Arthur shook his head. 'I've always been terrible at colors,' he said, 'It comes from having grown up with the single-row box of crayons instead of the big box. If I'd had the big box I would now know taupe and cerise and ecru. Instead, all I know is burnt sienna. And what good does it do me? Never once I have I heard anything described as burnt sienna. Never once have I heard anyone say, "Follow that burnt sienna car.

After a brief murmured exchange, the lady's maid opened the door a bit wider, and Phoebe's brother Ivo stuck his head inside. "Hullo, sis," he said casually. "You look very nice in that gold dress." "It's ecru." At his perplexed look, she repeated, "Ecru." "God bless you," Ivo said, and gave her a cheeky grin as he entered the room. Phoebe lifted her gaze heavenward. "Why are you here, Ivo?" "I'm going to escort you downstairs, so you don't have to go alone." Phoebe was so moved, she couldn't speak. She could only stare at the eleven-year-old boy, who was volunteering to take the place her husband would have assumed. "It was Father's idea," Ivo continued, a touch bashfully. "I'm sorry I'm not as tall as the other ladies' escorts, or even as tall as you. I'm really only half an escort. But that's still better than nothing, isn't it?" His expression turned uncertain as he saw that her eyes were watering. After clearing her throat, Phoebe managed an unsteady reply. "At this moment, my gallant Ivo, you tower above every other gentleman here. I'm so very honored." He grinned and offered his arm in a gesture she had seen him practice in the past with their father. "The honor is mine, sis." In that moment, Phoebe had the briefest intimation of what Ivo would be like as a full-grown man, confident and irresistibly charming.

Gay people wearing shawl-collar half-zip ecru sweaters does not oppress Christians. Christians turning their gay children out on to the streets, keeping gay spouses from sitting at each other’s deathbeds, and casting gay people as diseased predators so that it’s easier to justify beating and murdering them does oppress gay people. That

Things can get out of hand quickly, especially with Sid around. I also decide never to wear heels again when I'm out with him. I go to Holt's in Camden Town and buy a pair of black Dr Martens. (You can get them in black, brown or maroon, the skinhead boys at school used to buy the brown ones and polish them with Kiwi Oxblood shoe polish — this gives them a deep reddish brown colour, much subtler than the flat red of the originals. They also keep them pristinely clean and polished at all times.) I wear my new boots with everything — dresses, tutus — it’s a great feeling to be able to run again. No other girl wears DMs with dresses, so I get a lot of funny looks. (Skinhead girls only wear DMs with Sta-Prest trousers. With their boring grey skirts, they west plain white or holey ecru tights and black patent brogues.) Bit I wear them all the time to clubs and pubs, it eventually catches on with other girls and I don’t look so odd.

Since your asshole ex-husband took all his shit with him and we have nothing fun to burn, we’ll start with this pile of shitty clothes,” she tells me, kicking the stack with her toe. “We’re not burning my clothes. Do you have any idea how expensive those pieces were?” I argue, even though the sight of all my monotone, plain clothing makes me want to reach for the closest lighter. “Cindy, you had a breakthrough the other night. You are on the track toward recovery and the first step is admitting you have a problem. Repeat after me: I will no longer put things on my body that are golden wheat, ecru, light baby-shit tan, or anything else in the beige family unless what I’m putting on my body is an actual man with that color skin tone,” Ariel recites, putting her hands on her hips and raising one eyebrow as she waits for me to comply with her request. “And we don’t have to burn everything. Just a few pieces to make you feel better. And by you I mean me, because if I have to look at this crap any longer, I’m going to throw up in my mouth. We can sell the rest.

Lighthouses Hot summer days ..... or - subtle breezes during Cool summer nights (An apricot sun) ..... or - a platinum moon, with its trailing veil of pale Ecru hued moon dust, the color of eggshell At night, we lay outside on blankets atop blades of grass ..... and - we love and we laugh Only pausing to gaze at the stars (Towards which, we raise up our arms) ..... and - hold out our flicked lighters As if they are, lighthouses Excerpt from: Jacob's Ascent, New Collected Poems by Mekael © Mekael Shane 2024

SENSUALITY   Her hands push upward gathering the material from my shirt until it reaches over my head. Brushing her hair with my hand I stare deep into the lambent ecru of her eyes as hints of russet and jade glimmer across them both. She gives into me reaching for me while moving her lips down my torso. Carefully removing each layer that is slowly loosened we now find each other completely unguarded as our arms do wrap tightly around one another. Her arms and hands glide and slide naturally in such a graceful performance that her movement does seduce every part of me. Here and now we have become bare as we embrace this method of nearness that unfolds one another’s secrets. Holding her inside of my gentle embrace I marvel every elegant strand from her karakul-like ringlets that fall down beside her face and shoulders. The splendor of her darling features give charm to that undulating delirium that she induces. The edges of my fingertips find their way down the muscles of her back in the way that a drop of rain finds itself traveling across the wet colocasia leaf. Looking into her eyes they do manifest to me again that she is the one whom I’ve been searching for all this time. She is the one I have waited for to whom I do give the great pleasure of showing me how. I’ve wanted every part of me to belong to her and no one else, knowing here and now that all of me will truly become her very own.

I thought about colors I hated: ecru, puce, lavender, beige and black.

Gabriel Mackie had just celebrated his fourth birthday the first time he visited the whisper room, a windowless enclave with lavender walls brimming with daydreams, obscured from reality. All he knew for certain was that his older brother, Griff, nicknamed Boo, was gone. His bedroom at the end of the long hallway had been transformed into a guest room with ecru lace duvets instead of the blue and white pinstriped spreads covering the twin beds. Vanished were his toy box and New York Yankee American League pennants that had plastered the walls, replaced by paintings of water lilies and wheat fields. A stray tear trickled down Gabe’s cheek when he remembered Boo’s curly blonde hair and how he snorted when he laughed. Silence is deafening and the Mackie household screamed heartbreak.

It is also okay to draw hard-and-fast distinctions between different ideas—to say that some ideas are good and some ideas are bad. There’s a difference between church groups boycotting JCPenney because JCPenney put a gay couple in their catalog and gay people boycotting Chick-fil-a because Chick-fil-a donated millions of dollars to groups working to strip gay people of rights and protections. Gay people wearing shawl-collar half-zip ecru sweaters does not oppress Christians. Christians turning their gay children out on to the streets, keeping gay spouses from sitting at each other’s deathbeds, and casting gay people as diseased predators so that it’s easier to justify beating and murdering them does oppress gay people. That said, right-wing Christians should have the right to boycott and write letters to whomever they please. The goal is to change the culture to the point where those boycotts are unsuccessful. You do that by being vocal and uncompromising about which ideas are good and which are bad—which ones we will tolerate, as a society, and which ones we will not.

Yet Judith Alethea is hardly more distinct as she tiptoes out of the glassy smog, her face a spilt cream smudge of makeup caked on and cracking at the corners of her eyes that intensifies her middle age instead of hiding it. A hesitant and excitable slap of putty, thoroughly kneaded by life and imprinted with its multilayered, multicolored narratives like transposed comic strips, she wears a thick, bunchy, ecru suit and hugs an equally bland oversized purse to her hip as she slowly minces into the witness box and huddles down in the seat. The big-boned, moon-faced court reporter leans forward to hear as Alethea swears her oath, while Shannon Gray hovers by the witness box as if attending to a senile aunt.

Nice bra.” “Israeli,” said Heidi. She looked around, taking in the contents of the room. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “The wallpaper’s like Hendrix’s pants.” “I think it’s satin.” Vertically striped, in green, burgundy, ecru, and black.

Never had she imagined so handsome a man with such an antiquated look. His skin was pale, his eyes ardent beneath luxuriant brows, his jet-black hair slicked down with a perfect center part. His tropical ecru silk dinner jacket tight around his narrow ribs completed the image of a dandy. Everything about him was as false as his manners, but his feverish eyes looked eager for compassion.