Fedora Guy Quotes

(which is ridiculous even to imagine, since those trapeze acts all have names like The Flying Fedoras, and mine would be called The Flying Bunches, which sounds like a couple of guys throwing bananas at each other).

The truth is that things do not work out, that there are no solutions, and you can go a year, a whole year, and be no better, no more healed, maybe even worse, be so skittish that if you’re walking down the street with Anna, and if someone opens a car door and gets out and slams the door you turn around, honest-to-god ready to kill them, turn around so fast that Anna, who knows what is happening, cannot even open her mouth in time and then you’re standing there, crying, and there’s some guy in a leather jacket and a fedora getting out of his Volkswagen Rabbit staring at you like, is this girl all right? and you want to be like, this girl is not all right, this girl will never be all right.

The back door opens again a few minutes later and I stand, fully prepared to wrestle the phone away from her. But Morgan’s not standing in my backyard. “Hey, you.” I blink. He’s here. Dark-red T-shirt, brown fedora. I blink again. The corner of his mouth turns up and I take off in a sprint, fly down the stairs of the deck, and jump into his arms, which he wraps tight around me. His hand cups the back of my head and repeatedly strokes my damp hair. Our bodies sway back and forth, and I slowly slide down until my feet touch the ground. I take a step back to study him. “You’re a hat guy again.” I grin. “But, that means--” I gasp when I pull the hat off him. “Your hair! You cut it!” I reach up and rake my hand through his subdued curls, more like waves now. “I cut it for you.” His hands at my bare waist send shivers through my core. “I liked the curls, you know.” “You thought I had a perm!” He leans his head back and laughs fully. “That’s the very definition of not liking the curls.” I giggle and shrug. “They grew on me. But this can grow on me too.

Sure, guess I could give you a bullwhip and a fedora. We’d market you as Indiana Bones. Or maybe go sci-fi. You sorta look like that guy who roamed outer space everybody’s so crazy about.” “Malcolm Reynolds?” asked Rook.

I look through the crowd of people and somehow see him right away. He looks up at the same time and smiles as soon as our eyes meet. “Hey,” I say when we meet. He stops just inches from me and takes me in his arms, dipping me back a bit for a kiss. “Hey to you too.” He runs his hands over my arms.  “What’s this?” “Oh, I got you something.” “You did?” “I got it on a whim. I saw it at a market I walked through and thought—well, just look at it and you’llknow.” He takes the shopping bag from me and opens it up, pulling out a wool fedora. Looking it over, I worry he won’t get it. “Is this an Indiana Jones hat?” he asks. “Yes!” “I like it.” He smiles and puts it on, and even Harrison Ford would be jealous. “But, uh, why?” I lean back, staring at Archer like he just asked what color the sky is. “You’re Dr. Jones. Please do not tell me no one has ever said ‘okey-dokey Dr. Jones’ to you.” “It’s surprising now that you’ve pointed it out, but no, they haven’t.” He pulls me in and kisses me again. “Wait, there’s an Indiana Jones market going on?” “No, just some weird guy at a pop-up selling hats. He told me I had nice feet.” Archer chuckles. “I guess you do, though, in that dress, it’s hard to look past your tits.” I shimmy and wiggle my eyebrows. “That’s the point of a pushup bra.” 

I was ironing shirts one night when my father dropped by to remind me that times have changed. “When I was your age,” he said, peeling off his grey fedora and easing himself into a soft chair, “I enjoyed being a man. Oh sure, life wasn’t beachfront property then either. There were pyramids to build, dinosaurs to avoid, and fire to invent. But at least we had clearly defined roles. Not anymore. Not you guys. No siree.” He sniffed the air. “Speaking of rolls, are those cherry tarts done yet?” “Not quite,” I said, holding a shirt up to the light with a critical gaze. “They need another 10 minutes. I always put the cherry ones on 350, you know. The crust is flakier that way.” “Flakier, alright,” he said softly, hauling both feet onto a stool. “You know, I wouldn’t trade places with today’s guy for a doctorate in Home Economics. No way. I get tired just watching you.” I creased another collar, listened to his laugh, and wondered if he had a point. It was the first thinking I’d done in awhile, what with attending church planning sessions, babysitting during Ladies’ Night Out, driving kids to sporting events, hollering at insurance salesmen, and...oh yes, holding down a full-time job.