Guess Handbags Quotes

A brittle smile worked across my face, and I drew back from her. “See you later, Mom.” She picked up her handbag, and sauntered out into the hallway. Jack looked around the doorjamb, his gaze sliding over me. “I’ll be back in a minute.” By the time Jack had returned, I had downed a shot of tequila from the pantry, hoping the liquor would burn through my head-to-toe numbness. It hadn’t. I felt like a freezer that needed to be defrosted. Luke fretted in my arms, making impatient noises, wriggling. Jack came to me and touched my chin, forcing me to meet his searching gaze. “Now aren’t you sorry you didn’t take my advice and leave?” I asked morosely. “No. I wanted to see what you grew up with.” “I guess you can tell why Tara and I both needed therapy.” “Hell, I need therapy, and I only spent an hour with her.

A display cake read JUNETEENTH! in red frosting, surrounded by red, white, and blue stars and fireworks. A flyer taped to the counter above it encouraged patrons to consider ordering a Juneteenth cake early: We all know about the Fourth of July! the flyer said. But why not start celebrating freedom a few weeks early and observe the anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation! Say it with cake! One of the two young women behind the bakery counter was Black, but I could guess the bakery's owner wasn't. The neighborhood, the prices, the twee acoustic music drifting out of sleek speakers: I knew all of the song's words, but everything about the space said who it was for. My memories of celebrating Juneteenth in DC were my parents taking me to someone's backyard BBQ, eating banana pudding and peach cobbler and strawberry cake made with Jell-O mix; at not one of them had I seen a seventy-five-dollar bakery cake that could be carved into the shape of a designer handbag for an additional fee. The flyer's sales pitch--so much hanging on that We all know--was targeted not to the people who'd celebrated Juneteenth all along but to office managers who'd feel hectored into not missing a Black holiday or who just wanted an excuse for miscellaneous dessert.

Emlyn shivers in the dark. She keeps on reading. A message from @ozkerwild, last month: I thought we had an understanding. No response from Janessa. Another from two weeks ago: You can’t keep me guessing like this. And finally, from eight days ago. Are we done? Janessa has responded to this final message from @ozkerwild, but her reply makes no sense: 44%N*679,1/114.W?42>17. It could have been a mistake, Emlyn thinks, a phone tossed in a handbag, keys pressed by accident.

By 2000, RMS Titanic Inc. had returned to the site four more times, using French or Russian submersibles. In a game of Finders Keepers, they pocketed more than 6,000 artifacts and displayed them in a museum, charging people to see them. The company even broadcast a documentary showing how it took the objects. All told, the items included eyeglasses, shoes, handbags, luggage, and even a bronze cherub statue from the Grand Staircase. A bell and a light from the foremast were removed, and the salvagers even raised a chunk of the hull weighing 18 tons. They sold pieces of coal from the engine room for $25 a block. They created a website, so you could peruse the collections online. Documentary filmmakers and wealthy sightseers visited the site in mini-subs. And, perhaps most grotesque of all, a couple were married in a submersible perched on Titanic’s bow. I wouldn’t think of a mass grave as romantic, but I guess some couples are into that.

Postwallet, however, the scene tingled with mirthful possibility. Sasha felt the waiters eyeing her as she sidled back to the table holding her handbag with its secret weight. She sat down and took a sip of her Melon Madness Martini and cocked her head at Alex. She smiled her yes/no smile. “Hello,” she said. The yes/no smile was amazingly effective. “You’re happy,” Alex said. “I’m always happy,” Sasha said. “Sometimes I just forget.” Alex had paid the bill while she was in the bathroom—clear proof that he’d been on the verge of aborting their date. Now he studied her. “You feel like going somewhere else?” They stood. Alex wore black cords and a white button-up shirt. He was a legal secretary. On e-mail he’d been fanciful, almost goofy, but in person he seemed simultaneously anxious and bored. She could tell that he was in excellent shape, not from going to the gym but from being young enough that his body was still imprinted with whatever sports he’d played in high school and college. Sasha, who was thirty-five, had passed that point. Still, not even Coz knew her real age. The closest anyone had come to guessing it was thirty-one, and most put her in her twenties. She worked out daily and avoided the sun. Her online profiles all listed her as twenty-eight. As she followed Alex from the bar, she couldn’t resist unzipping her purse and touching the fat green wallet just for a second, for the contraction it made her feel around her heart. “You’re aware of how the theft makes you feel,” Coz said. “To the point where you remind yourself of it to improve your mood. But do you think about how it makes the other person feel?