Napkin Folding Quotes

Wylan drew himself up. “I may not have had your … education, but I’m sure I know plenty of words that you don’t.” “Also the proper way to fold a napkin and dance a minuet. Oh, and you can play the flute. Marketable skills, merchling. Marketable skills.” “No one dances the minuet any more,” grumbled Wylan.

Annabeth finished her note and folded the napkin. On the outside, she wrote: Connor, Give this to Rachel. Not a prank. Don’t be a moron. Love, Annabeth

I once had a love who folded secrets between her thighs like napkins and concealed memories in the valley of her breasts. There was no match for the freckles on her chest, and no one could mistake them for a field of honeysuckles. Upon her lips, a thousand lies were spread in sweet gloss. Her kiss was like a storybook from ancient history. She was at home with the body of a man inside her, beside her. At night, when she lay in bed crying, no one could mistake the tears she wept for a summer shower She is gone, my love. She was a wanderess, a wildflower.

I like bars just after they open for the evening. When the air inside is still cool and clean and everything is shiny and the barkeep is giving himself that last look in the mirror to see if his tie is straight and his hair is smooth. I like the neat bottles on the bar back and the lovely shining glasses and the anticipation. I like to watch the man mix the first one of the evening and put it down on a crisp mat and put the little folded napkin beside it. I like to taste it slowly. The first quiet drink of the evening in a quiet bar—that's wonderful.

We still have your watch.You can have it back tonight.All you need to do is sneak up after dinner, set the tower, and flee the country. Agreed? Azalea burned with embarrassment as Bramble folded the napkin around the pencil and passed it to Lord Bradford with the rolls. Lord Bradford took it and unfolded it in his lap.His dark eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. Then he folded the napkin and placed it under his plate. Bramble's yellow-green eyes narrowed.

Always hit where the mark isn't looking." "Who's Mark?" asked Wylan Jesper burst out laughing. "Oh, Saints,you are something. The mark, the pigeon,the cosy, the fool you're looking to fleece." Wylan drew himself up. "I may have not had your... education, but I'm sure I know plenty of words you don't." "Also the proper way to fold a napkin and dance a minuet. Oh, and you can play the flute. Mareketable skills, merchling. Marketable skills. "No one dances the minuet anymore." Grumbled Wylan,

I like bars just after they open for the evening. When the air inside is still cool and clean and everything is shiny and the barkeep is giving himself that last look in the mirror to see if his tie is straight and his hair is smooth. I like the neat bottles on the bar back and the lovely shining glasses and the anticipation. I like to watch the man mix the first one of the evening and put it down on a crisp mat and put the little folded napkin beside it. I like to taste it slowly. The first quiet drink of the evening in a quiet bar—that’s wonderful.

The only way I could conceive of waving a white flag, would be during the process of folding it, so to be used as a napkin later, at our victory dinner.

The novel belongs to our parents, I thought then, I think now. That's what we grew up believing, that the novel belonged to our parents. We cursed them, and also took refuge in their shadows, relieved. While the adults killed or were killed, we drew pictures in a corner. While the country was falling to pieces, we were learning to talk, to walk, to fold napkins in the shapes of boats, of airplanes. While the novel was happening, we played hide-and-seek, we played at disappearing.

Don’t worry,” Milo replied; “I’ll just wrap one up for later,” and he folded his napkin around “EVERYTHING HAPPENS FOR THE BEST.

Honey, have you seen my measuring tape?” “I think it’s in that drawer in the kitchen with the scissors, matches, bobby pins, Scotch tape, nail clippers, barbecue tongs, garlic press, extra buttons, old birthday cards, soy sauce packets thick rubber bands, stack of Christmas napkins, stained take-out menus, old cell-phone chargers, instruction booklet for the VCR, some assorted nickels, an incomplete deck of cards, extra chain links for a watch, a half-finished pack of cough drops, a Scrabble piece I found while vacuuming, dead batteries we aren’t fully sure are dead yet, a couple screws in a tiny plastic bag left over from the bookshelf, that lock with the forgotten combination, a square of carefully folded aluminum foil, and expired pack of gum, a key to our old house, a toaster warranty card, phone numbers for unknown people, used birthday candles, novelty bottle openers, a barbecue lighter, and that one tiny little spoon.” “Thanks, honey.” AWESOME!

I stared at the objects before me: cold coffee in a cup of thick white glass, folded napkin, spoon with a liquid coffee shadow on its face. Symbols of order and humility, comfort and banality. These were the things of my life; I had been sitting at these goddamn coffee tables all my life recovering from what other people had done to me.

Bob,” she said, “offerings burned in the mortal world appear on this altar, right?” Bob frowned uncomfortably, like he wasn’t ready for a pop quiz. “Yes?” “So what happens if I burn something on the altar here?” “Uh…” “That’s all right,” Annabeth said. “You don’t know. Nobody knows, because it’s never been done.” There was a chance, she thought, just the slimmest chance that an offering burned on this altar might appear at Camp Half-Blood. Doubtful, but if it did work… “Annabeth?” Percy said again. “You’re planning something. You’ve got that I’m-planning-something look.” “I don’t have an I’m-planning-something look.” “Yeah, you totally do. Your eyebrows knit and your lips press together and—” “Do you have a pen?” she asked him. “You’re kidding, right?” He brought out Riptide. “Yes, but can you actually write with it?” “I—I don’t know,” he admitted. “Never tried.” He uncapped the pen. As usual, it sprang into a full-sized sword. Annabeth had watched him do this hundreds of times. Normally when he fought, Percy simply discarded the cap. It always appeared in his pocket later, as needed. When he touched the cap to the point of the sword, it would turn back into a ballpoint pen. “What if you touch the cap to the other end of the sword?” Annabeth said. “Like where you’d put the cap if you were actually going to write with the pen.” “Uh…” Percy looked doubtful, but he touched the cap to the hilt of the sword. Riptide shrank back into a ballpoint pen, but now the writing point was exposed. “May I?” Annabeth plucked it from his hand. She flattened the napkin against the altar and began to write. Riptide’s ink glowed Celestial bronze. “What are you doing?” Percy asked. “Sending a message,” Annabeth said. “I just hope Rachel gets it.” “Rachel?” Percy asked. “You mean our Rachel? Oracle of Delphi Rachel?” “That’s the one.” Annabeth suppressed a smile. Whenever she brought up Rachel’s name, Percy got nervous. At one point, Rachel had been interested in dating Percy. That was ancient history. Rachel and Annabeth were good friends now. But Annabeth didn’t mind making Percy a little uneasy. You had to keep your boyfriend on his toes. Annabeth finished her note and folded the napkin. On the outside, she wrote: Connor, Give this to Rachel. Not a prank. Don’t be a moron. Love, Annabeth She took a deep breath. She was asking Rachel Dare to do something ridiculously dangerous, but it was the only way she could think of to communicate with the Romans—the only way that might avoid bloodshed. “Now I just need to burn it,” she said. “Anybody got a match?” The point of Bob’s spear shot from his broom handle. It sparked against the altar and erupted in silvery fire. “Uh, thanks.” Annabeth lit the napkin and set it on the altar. She watched it crumble to ash and wondered if she was crazy. Could the smoke really make it out of Tartarus? “We should go now,” Bob advised. “Really, really go. Before we are killed.” Annabeth stared at the wall of blackness in front of them. Somewhere in there was a lady who dispensed a Death Mist that might hide them from monsters—a plan recommended by a Titan, one of their bitterest enemies. Another dose of weirdness to explode her brain. “Right,” she said. “I’m ready.” ANNABETH LITERALLY STUMBLED over the second Titan.

Rovon said very seriously, looking into her eyes, "You never have to take a life, Riki. You always have a choice." Archer folded his napkin. Almost picked a fight with his uncle. Almost walked out. A choice? Sometimes the choice was kill or die.

Three or four days later he was still thinking about seal flipper pie. Remembered the two raw eggs Petal gave him. That he invested with pathetic meaning. 'Petal,' said Quoyle to Wavey, 'hated to cook. Hardly ever did.' Thought of the times he had fixed dinner for her, set put his stupid candles, folded the napkins as though they were important, waited and finally ate alone, the radio on for company. And later dined with the children, shoveling in canned spaghetti, scraping baby food off small chins. 'Once she gave me two eggs. Raw eggs for a present.' He had made an omelet of them, hand-fed her as thought she were a nestling bird. And saved the shells in a paper cup on top of the kitchen cabinet. Where they still must be.

When he was finished, he set his plate down, looked at me, and raised an eyebrow. I leaned forward and whispered angrily, “I am not going to sit on your lap, so don’t get your hopes up, Mister.” He still waited until I picked up a fork and took a few bites. I speared a bite of macadamia nut crusted ruby snapper and said, “Whew. Time’s up. Isn’t it? The clock is ticking. You must be sweating it, huh? I mean, you could turn any second.” He just took a bite of curried lamb and then some saffron rice and sat there chewing as cool as a cucumber. I watched him closely for a full two minutes and then folded up my napkin. “Okay, I give. Why are you acting so smug and confident? When are you going to tell me what’s going on?” He wiped his mouth carefully and took a sip of water. “What’s going on, my prema, is that the curse has been lifted.” My mouth dropped open. “What? If it was lifted, why were you a tiger for the last two days?” “Well, to be clear, the curse is not completely gone. I seem to have been granted a partial removal of the curse.” “Partial? Partial meaning what, exactly?” “Partial, meaning a certain number of hours per day. Six hours to be exact.” I recited the prophecy in my mind and remembered that there were four sides to the monolith, and four times six was…”Twenty-four.” He paused. “Twenty-four what?” “Well, six hours makes sense because there are four gifts to obtain for Durga and four sides of the monolith. We’ve only completed one of the tasks, so you only get six hours.” He smiled. “I guess I get to keep you around then, at least until the other tasks are finished.” I snorted. “Don’t hold your breath, Tarzan. I might not need to be present for the other tasks. Now that you’re a man part of the time, you and Kishan can resolve this problem yourselves, I’m sure.” He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes at me. “Don’t underestimate your level of…involvement, Kelsey. Even if you weren’t needed anymore to break the curse, do you think I’d simply let you go? Let you walk out of my life without a backward glance?” I nervously began toying with my food and decided to say nothing. That was exactly what I’d been planning to do. Something had changed. The hurt and confused Ren that made me feel guilty for rejecting him in Kishkindha was gone. He was now supremely confident, almost arrogant, and very sure of himself.

I looked around the cafeteria. There was a little paper product city set-up on one of the folding tables next to the empty salad bar- stacks of napkins, towers of cups.

Take this pounding heart, my dear. Fold it like a napkin boat. And set it to sail.

I once read that if the folds in the cerebral cortex were smoothed out it would cover a card table. That seemed quite unbelievable but it did make me wonder just how big the cortex would be if you ironed it out. I thought it might just about cover a family-sized pizza: not bad, but no card-table. I was astonished to realize that nobody seems to know the answer. A quick search yielded the following estimates for the smoothed out dimensions of the cerebral cortex of the human brain. An article in Bioscience in November 1987 by Julie Ann Miller claimed the cortex was a "quarter-metre square." That is napkin-sized, about ten inches by ten inches. Scientific American magazine in September 1992 upped the ante considerably with an estimated of 1 1/2 square metres; thats a square of brain forty inches on each side, getting close to the card-table estimate. A psychologist at the University of Toronto figured it would cover the floor of his living room (I haven't seen his living room), but the prize winning estimate so far is from the British magazine New Scientist's poster of the brain published in 1993 which claimed that the cerebral cortex, if flattened out, would cover a tennis court. How can there be such disagreement? How can so many experts not know how big the cortex is? I don't know, but I'm on the hunt for an expert who will say the cortex, when fully spread out, will cover a football field. A Canadian football field.

These things matter to me, Daniel, says the man with six days to live. They are sitting on the porch in the last light. These things matter to me, son. The way the hawks huddle their shoulders angrily against hissing snow. Wrens whirring in the bare bones of bushes in winter. The way swallows and swifts veer and whirl and swim and slice and carve and curve and swerve. The way that frozen dew outlines every blade of grass. Salmonberries thimbleberries cloudberries snowberries elderberries salalberries gooseberries. My children learning to read. My wife's voice velvet in my ear at night in the dark under the covers. Her hair in my nose as we slept curled like spoons. The sinuous pace of rivers and minks and cats. Fresh bread with too much butter. My children's hands when they cup my face in their hands. Toys. Exuberance. Mowing the lawn. Tiny wrenches and screwdrivers. Tears of sorrow, which are the salt sea of the heart. Sleep in every form from doze to bone-weary. Pay stubs. Trains. The shivering ache of a saxophone and the yearning of a soprano. Folding laundry hot from the dryer. A spotless kitchen floor. The sound of bagpipes. The way horses smell in spring. Red wines. Furnaces. Stone walls. Sweat. Postcards on which the sender has written so much that he or she can barely squeeze in the signature. Opera on the radio. Bathrobes, back rubs. Potatoes. Mink oil on boots. The bands at wedding receptions. Box-elder bugs. The postman's grin. Linen table napkins. Tent flaps. The green sifting powdery snow of cedar pollen on my porch every year. Raccoons. The way a heron labors through the sky with such a vast elderly dignity. The cheerful ears of dogs. Smoked fish and the smokehouses where fish are smoked. The way barbers sweep up circles of hair after a haircut. Handkerchiefs. Poems read aloud by poets. Cigar-scissors. Book marginalia written with the lightest possible pencil as if the reader is whispering to the writer. People who keep dead languages alive. Fresh-mown lawns. First-basemen's mitts. Dish-racks. My wife's breasts. Lumber. Newspapers folded under arms. Hats. The way my children smelled after their baths when they were little. Sneakers. The way my father's face shone right after he shaved. Pants that fit. Soap half gone. Weeds forcing their way through sidewalks. Worms. The sound of ice shaken in drinks. Nutcrackers. Boxing matches. Diapers. Rain in every form from mist to sluice. The sound of my daughters typing their papers for school. My wife's eyes, as blue and green and gray as the sea. The sea, as blue and green and gray as her eyes. Her eyes. Her.

So this Logan guy, is he giving you a hard time about the wedding?” “He’s blackmailing me.” Kevin jumped to his feet so fast, she sat back in her chair. “He’s a dead man. I’m going to kick his ass so bad he won’t even be able to cry for his mommy. Gonna fold him up like a napkin.” His loyalty warmed her heart, even as embarrassment warmed her cheeks. “It’s…not what you’re thinking.” “I’m thinking by the time I’m done pounding on his face, even dogs will be afraid of him.

He was folding up his napkin, pushing back his plate, and I wondered how it was he spoke so casually, as thought the matter was of little consequence, a mere adjustment of plans. Whereas to me it was a bombshell, exploding in a thousand tiny fragments.

LIVIA DIDN’T IMMEDIATELY REMEMBER the details of the night before when she woke in her bed. Her blanket had been arranged around her. As she sat up, she noticed little paper-napkin roses tucked among her belongings. Blake. He’d even given Teddy a spiffy bow tie. He must have taken a whole stack of napkins from The Launch Pad, and the sunlight trickling in her window explained his absence. His fancy clothes were folded neatly on the end of her bed. The prince was the one to run out of time in this Cinderella story.

This is a great turtle, Katie.” “James.” Millie brings the waffles to the table. “Are you blind?” Yeah, you tell him, Millie. Some people just can’t appreciate good art. Millie holds her folded napkin up proudly. “It’s a frog.” True artists (like Picasso or me) are always misunderstood.

I really, really, really would be forever indebted to you if you just revealed how you did one trick. Just one, that’s all I’m asking for.” Jay wipes his mouth with a napkin, his lips forming a smirk. “When you say ‘forever indebted,’ just what are we talking about here?” Jessie makes a foreboding sound. “No way, sweetheart. You don’t want to do that. This fucker’s a slave driver when you owe him.” “Okay, well, maybe I won’t be forever in your debt. Perhaps I was getting a little carried away with myself. If you tell me one trick, I’ll owe you one thing in return. You can decide, but it has to be reasonable, like washing your car or something.” Jay leans forward and steeples his fingers in front of him. “Will you wash my car topless?” he asks huskily. My cheeks colour, and Jessie lets out a bark of a laugh. “Oh, now, that is a good idea.” “Okay, let me amend my offer. I will owe you, but it can’t be sexual.” “Topless isn’t sexual,” says Jay. “Topless is natural.” “I second that,” Jessie adds. “How about braless?” Jay goes on. God, these two. Why do I even bother? “Fine. I retract my offer,” I huff, sitting back in my seat and folding my arms.

In some ways it was easier to parent alone. I could run a very tight ship. I had Sam making their own bed and folding napkins, both of us running on a perfect schedule. But the days were somehow anemic, hollow, even with made-up games and foods, riding bikes, and long baths; I couldn’t seem to generate a healthy, hearty family feeling on my own. It felt like an act.

Shadow had no idea what a pasty was, but he said that would be fine, and in a few moments Mabel returned with a plate with what looked like a folded-over pie on it. The lower half was wrapped in a paper napkin. Shadow picked it up with the napkin and bit into it: it was warm and filled with meat, potatoes, carrots, onions. “First pasty I’ve ever had,” he said. “It’s real good.

She enjoyed the notion that New York was home, and that she missed it, but in fact the only thing she really missed was pizza. And not just any old pizza, but the sort of pizza they brought to your door if you phoned them up and asked them. That was the only real pizza. Pizza that you had to go out and sit at a table staring at red paper napkins for wasn’t real pizza however much extra pepperoni and anchovy they put on it. London was the place she liked living in most, apart, of course, from the pizza problem, which drove her crazy. Why would no one deliver pizza? Why did no one understand that it was fundamental to the whole nature of pizza that it arrived at your front door in a hot cardboard box? That you slithered it out of greaseproof paper and ate it in folded slices in front of the TV?

I’ll let you help.” When he smiled broadly, because he was getting his way, she cut through his robin-breasted satisfaction. “But there are conditions.” He laughed. “You’re putting restrictions on a gift given to you?” “It’s not a gift.” She stared at him with dead seriousness. “It’s only until I find some kind of work, not my dream job. And I want to pay you back.” He lost a little of his satisfaction. “I don’t want your money.” “And I feel the same way about yours.” She folded her napkin. “I know you’re not hurting for cash, but that’s the only way I’ll be okay with this.” He frowned. “No interest, though. I won’t accept even one penny in interest.” “Deal.” She put her palm out and waited. He cursed. And cursed again. “I don’t want you to pay it back.” “Tough.” After his mouth performed some intricate f-bomb acrobatics, he put his hand in hers and they shook. “You drive a hard bargain, you know that,” he said. “But you respect me for it, right?” “Well, yeah. And it makes me want to get you naked.” “Oh…” Ehlena flushed from head to toe as he slid off his stool and towered over her, cupping her face in his hands. “You going to let me take you to my bed?” Given the way those purple eyes of his were shining, she was willing to let him take her down on the damn kitchen floor if he asked. “Yes.” A growl rolled up out of his chest as he kissed her. “Guess what?” “What?” she breathed. “That was the right answer.” -Ehlena & Rehv

We have some great museums. You'd love the lake." "I don't know that I can enjoy any kind of water anymore." "Why not?" I already knew. "After that little girl, little Ann Nash, was left in the creek to drown." She paused to take a sip of her iced tea. "I knew her, you know." Amma whined and began fidgeting in her seat. "She wasn't drowned though," I said, knowing my correction would annoy her. "She was strangled. She just ended up in the creek." "And then the Keene girl. I was fond of both of them. Very fond." She stared away wistfully, and Alan put his hand over hers. Amma stood up, released a little scream the way an excited puppy might suddenly bark, and ran upstairs. "Poor thing," my mother said. "She's having nearly as hard a time as I am." "She actually saw the girls every day, so I'm sure she is," I said peevishly in spite of myself. "How did you know them?" "Wind Gap, I need not remind you, is a small town. They were sweet, beautiful little girls. Just beautiful." "But you didn't really know them." "I did know them. I knew them well." "How?" "Camille, please try not to do this. I've just told you that I am upset and unnerved, and instead of being comforting, you attack me." "So. You've sworn off all bodies of water in the future, then?" My mother emitted a quick, creaky sound. "You need to shut up now, Camille." She folded the napkin around the remains of her pear like a swaddling and left the room. Alan followed her with his manic whistling, like an old-time piano player lending drama to a silent movie.

Did the countess tell you what was said between her and me?” Lillian asked tentatively. Marcus shook his head, his mouth twisting. “She told me that you had decided to elope with St. Vincent.” “Elope?” Lillian repeated in shock. “As if I deliberately… as if I had chosen him over—” She stopped, aghast, as she imagined how he must have felt. Although she had not shed a single tear during the entire day, the thought that Marcus might have wondered for a split second if yet another woman had left him for St. Vincent… it was too much to bear. She burst into noisy sobs, startling herself as well as Marcus. “You didn’t believe it, did you? My God, please say you didn’t!” “Of course I didn’t.” He stared at her in astonishment, and hastily reached for a table napkin to wipe at the stream of tears on her face. “No, no, don’t cry—” “I love you, Marcus.” Taking the napkin from him, Lillian blew her nose noisily and continued to weep as she spoke. “I love you. I don’t mind if I’m the first one to say it, nor even if I’m the only one. I just want you to know how very much—” “I love you too,” he said huskily. “I love you too. Lillian… Please don’t cry. It’s killing me. Don’t.” She nodded and blew into the linen folds again, her complexion turning mottled, her eyes swelling, her nose running freely. It appeared, however, that there was something wrong with Marcus’s vision. Grasping her head in his hands, he pressed a hard kiss to her mouth and said hoarsely, “You’re so beautiful.” The statement, though undoubtedly sincere, caused her to giggle through her last hiccupping sobs. Wrapping his arms around her in an embrace that was just short of crushing, Marcus asked in a muffled voice, “My love, hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s bad form to laugh at a man when he’s declaring himself?” She blew her nose with a last inelegant snort. “I’m a hopeless case, I’m afraid. Do you still want to marry me?” “Yes. Now.” The statement shocked her out of her tears. “What?” “I don’t want to return with you to Hampshire. I want to take you to Gretna Green. The inn has its own coach service— I’ll hire one in the morning, and we’ll reach Scotland the day after tomorrow.” “But… but everyone will expect a respectable church wedding…” “I can’t wait for you. I don’t give a damn about respectability.” A wobbly grin spread across Lillian’s face as she thought of how many people would be astonished to hear such a statement from him. “It smacks of scandal, you know. The Earl of Westcliff rushing off for an anvil wedding in Gretna Green…” “Let’s begin with a scandal, then.” He kissed her, and she responded with a low moan, clinging and arching against him, until he pushed his tongue deeper, molding his lips tighter over hers, feasting on the warm, open silkiness of her mouth. Breathing heavily, he dragged his lips to her quivering throat. “Say, ‘Yes, Marcus,’” he prompted. “Yes, Marcus.

But the crown jewel was the columned Greek Revival mansion, which dated from the mid-1800s, along with the manicured boxwood gardens that would serve as the backdrop for the couple's ceremony. Of course, everything was not only very traditional but also a standard to what one might imagine an over-the-top Southern wedding to be. As I said, "Steel Magnolias on steroids." The ceremony would take place outdoors in the garden, but large custom peach-and-white scalloped umbrellas were placed throughout the rows of bamboo folding chairs to shade the guests. Magnolia blossoms and vintage lace adorned the ends of the aisles. White, trellis-covered bars flanked the entrance to the gardens where guests could select from a cucumber cooler or spiked sweet tea to keep cool during the thirty-minute nuptials. It was still considered spring, but like Dallas, Nashville could heat up early in the year, and we were glad to be prepared. By the time we arrived the tent was well on its way to completion, and rental deliveries were rolling in. The reception structure was located past the gardens near the enormous whitewashed former stable, and inside the ceiling was draped in countless yards of peach fabric with crystal chandeliers hanging above every dining table. Custom napkins with embroidered magnolias on them complemented the centerpieces' peach garden roses, lush greenery, and dried cotton stems. Cedric's carpentry department created floor-to-ceiling lattice walls covered in faux greenery and white wisteria blooms, a dreamy backdrop for the band.

So, Cameron," Steph continued, "auditions for the school play are next week. You should come. We need more males of the species to try out." "Not my thing," Cameron said. "okay, so you don't want to be onstage. You could be backstage." "With Jenna," Gil said helpfully. "She's the stage manager-" Ethan talked over Gil. "But if it's not our thing," he said, "it's not your thing. You don't even have to have a thing if you don't want." "Right," Katy said, "no thing required." Cameron didn't respond, didn't even act like anyone was waiting for him to say anything. He just ate his lunch, scooping spaghetti onto a piece of bread and folding the bread over into a sort of sandwich before putting it in his mouth. I was fascinated by the most mundane little details of him-how he held his paper napkin in his left hand while he ate with his right, the space he took up when both his elbows were on the table. I was suddenly aware that I'd been staring at him, and everyone else at the table was staring at me. They were all done with their lunches. I wondered how much time had passed. "Um," Katy said to me, "are you all right?" Steph caught my eye and smiled slowly. "Oh,yeah." I concentrated on my half sandwich trying to think of something witty to say, but I was in total Jennifer Harris territory now, spacing out and forgetting how to make simple conversation. Cameron picked up his empty tray. "Nice to meet you all. See you later." He lifted a finger toward me. "Bye, Jennifer." We watched him leave, then Gil said, "How come he calls you Jennifer?" I crumpled up my lunch bag. "because that used to be my name." "Really?" Ethan said. "I didn't know that." "I changed it a long time ago." "He's shy," Steph said, still watching the spot where Cameron had been sitting. Katy smirked. "Not with Jenna." Ethan surprised me by coming to Cameron's defense. "That's because they've known each other forever. I'd be nervous, too, if I were meeting all you retards for the first time." "Good point," Junior Dave said.

Origami Master If you're the greatest origami master in the world maybe I can find you a job folding napkins at a restaurant. I'm not making any promises.

I’ve noticed I seem to make you nervous,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Do you think you have cause to be afraid of me?” He glanced over at Emma, but she kept busy smoothing her dress, messing with her bonnet ribbon, and folding the napkin. At least she wasn’t picking at that apron. “No, not at all. Why would you think something like that?” She stood and began to brush her dress but a red blush crept up her neck and made a good effort to reach her hairline. “Okay, if you say so.” Davis

Once upon a time, there lived a man who had a terrible passion for baked beans. He loved them, but they always had an embarrassing and somewhat lively reaction on him. One day he met a girl and fell in love. When it was apparent that they would marry, he thought to himself 'She'll never go for me carrying on like that,' so he made the supreme sacrifice and gave up beans, and shortly after that they got married.      A few months later, on the way home from work, his car broke down and since they lived in the country, he called his wife and told her he would be late because he had to walk. On his way home, he passed a small cafe and the wonderful aroma of baked beans overwhelmed him. Since he still had several miles to walk he figured he could walk off any ill affects before he got home. So he went in and ordered, and before leaving had three extra-large helpings of baked beans. All the way home he farted. He 'putted' down one hill and 'putt-putted' up the next. By the time he arrived home he felt reasonably safe.      His wife met him at the door and seemed somewhat excited. She exclaimed, 'Darling, I have the most wonderful surprise for you for dinner tonight!' She put a blindfold on him, and led him to his chair at the head of the table and made him promise not to peek. At this point he was beginning to feel another one coming on. Just as she was about to remove the blindfold, the telephone rang. She again made him promise not to peek until she returned, and she went to answer the phone.       While she was gone, he seized the opportunity. He shifted his weight to one leg and let go. It was not only loud, but *ripe* as a rotten egg.        He had a hard time breathing, so he felt for his napkin and fanned the air about him. He had just started to feel better, when another urge came on. He raised his leg and 'rrriiiipppp!' It sounded like a diesel engine revving, and smelled worse. To keep from gagging, he tried fanning his arms a while, hoping the smell would dissipate. Things had just about returned to normal when he felt another urge coming. He shifted his weight to his other leg and let go. This was a real blue ribbon winner; the windows rattled, the dishes on the table shook and a minute later the flowers on the table were dead. While keeping an ear tuned in on the conversation in the hallway, and keeping his promise of staying blindfolded, he carried on like this for the next ten minutes, farting and fanning them each time with his napkin.      When he heard the 'phone farewells' (indicating the end of his loneliness and freedom) he neatly laid his napkin on his lap and folded his hands on top of it. Smiling contentedly, he was the picture of innocence when his wife walked in. Apologizing for taking so long, she asked if he had peeked at the dinner. After assuring her he had not, she removed the blindfold and yelled, 'Surprise!'      To his shock and horror, there were twelve dinner guests seated around the table for his surprise birthday party.

In the cafeteria, Knowledge said to me, “Life’s only as bad as you make it out to be. It’s got nothing to do with the way it is.” After three quick shovels of mashed potatoes, she mumbled, “You get me?” Her knees rattled under our table. I folded and unfolded the paper napkin on my lap and drank my milk before telling her that I didn’t, and that I didn’t understand most of what she said.

The waitress approached him and put a folded napkin on the table. “Your check, sir,” she said and left. Shacks took out a little paper from the napkin, looked at the amount, and then turned his gaze to the table. Kai had emptied at least five plates during their conversation. “What a crafty little bastard!” He chuckled.

See, the first members of the clan were women who fled from the Tree of Life, where they were basically slaves... But things changed...” “I see... Well, thank you for your time and the chat. I gotta go now.” Kai interrupted Shacks, got up, and walked toward the exit. The archer sighed, deactivating the Concealing Curtain. “Till next time.” The waitress approached him and put a folded napkin on the table. “Your check, sir,” she said and left. Shacks took out a little paper from the napkin, looked at the amount, and then turned his gaze to the table. Kai had emptied at least five plates during their conversation. “What a crafty little bastard!” He chuckled. ***

How life plays tricks with us, he thought, as he folded the napkins and set them beside the plates. When Raffi was just starting to sit at the table and eat with them, dropping as much on the table or the floor as he got into his mouth, sipping and spilling and never quite sure what to do with his fork, Brunetti had viewed his behaviour not as charming, but as a continual distraction from his own meal. Yet here he was, years later, hoping that boy – now fully competent in the use of his fork – would find the time to eat with them and not take himself off to a friend’s house. It had nothing whatsoever to do with his son’s conversation, nor his wit nor his grasp of ideas, Brunetti realized. It simply filled Brunetti’s heart to have them there and to be able to see and hear them, knowing they were safe and warm and well

Bryce set down the fork. Folded her napkin into a neat square before she rose. “I’m going.” “All right,” Reid said, eyes fixed on his screen.

This place, however, was about permanence. Permanence, and uniqueness. Every detail custom-built of polished old wood, wrought iron, sculpted marble. Original works of art wherever some decoration was wanted, living flowers arranged by human hands. That human effort immanent in every detail. Napkins folded just so, drinks hand-shaken and served with origami twists of citrus rind. People were expensive; the way to display, or to enjoy, great wealth was to build an environment that could only have been wrought, and could only be sustained from one hour to the next, by unceasing human effort.

Ardie, like many of us, had caught perfectionism, an illness that we heard was more common in women by a factor of roughly twenty to one. To the best of our understanding, it was transferred through social media and the pages of glossy magazines that were displayed face-out in the checkout line and, once contracted at the age of twelve or thirteen, could be cured by no number of Jezebel think pieces or edgy rom-coms in which the leading lady boldly portrayed a train wreck or a bad mommy. For our children, we chased the gold standard of suburban contentment set by our own stay-at-home mothers, while simultaneously stepping into the shoes of our breadwinning fathers. And we made sure that everyone knew we were handling it all swimmingly by the way we wrote notes on napkins dutifully folded into our children’s lunch boxes and threw Halloween parties with Swiss cheese cut into the shapes of ghosts. Because honestly, if that wasn’t success, what was?

you listen to the great music while you saunter in the harbour with the twelve boat masts like a speechless restaurant server who cleans the autumnal tables folding carefully the napkins of the night, gathering  the stack  of plates with the leftover fish bones.

I could kill you with the ink pen by the cash register, a dirty glass, or a used napkin folded in the shape of a motherfucking swan. And don’t think I wouldn’t have enough time to do some origami, shove it down your goddamn throat and watch you choke on it before you could move.

Hey, Shell-bell," I say, leaning over her and wiping her face with a napkin. "It's the first day of school. Wish me luck." Shelley holds jerky arms out and gives me a lopsided smile. I love that smile. "You want to give me a hug?" I ask her, knowing she does. The doctors always tell us the more interaction Shelley gets, the better off she'll be. Shelley nods. I fold myself in her arms, careful to keep her hands away from my hair. When I straighten, my mom gasps. It sounds to me like a referee's whistle, halting my life. "Brit, you can't go to school like that." "Like what?" She shakes her head and sighs in frustration. "Look at your shirt." Glancing down, I see a large wet spot on the front of my white Calvin Klein shirt. Oops. Shelley's drool. One look at my sister's drawn face tells me what she can't easily put into words. Shelley is sorry. Shelley didn't mean to mess up my outfit. "It's no biggie," I tell her, although in the back of my mind I know it screws up my "perfect" look. Frowning, my mom wets a paper towel at the sink and dabs at the spot. It makes me feel like a two-year-old. "Go upstairs and change." "Mom, it was just peaches," I say, treading carefully so this doesn't turn into a full-blown yelling match. The last thing I want to do is make my sister feel bad. "Peaches stain. You don't want people thinking you don't care about your appearance." "Fine." I wish this was one of my mom's good days, the days she doesn't bug me about stuff. I give my sister a kiss on the top of her head, making sure she doesn't think her drool bothers me in the least. "I'll see ya after school," I say, attempting to keep the morning cheerful. "To finish our checker tournament.

The way he learned to sing was by imitating the songbirds: their warbles and whistles, their scolds. Before his stroke he'd been able to imitate certain notes and melodies of their calls, but never whole songs. I was sitting under the umbrella with him, in early March-March second, the day the Texas Declaration of Independence had been signed, when Grandfather began to sing. A black-and-white warbler had flown in right in front of us and was sitting on a cedar limb, singing-relieved, I think, that we weren't owls. Cedar waxwings moved through the brush behind it, pausing to wipe the bug juice from their bills by rubbing their beaks against branches (like men dabbing their mouths with napkins after getting up from the table). Towhees were hopping all around us, scratching through the cedar duff for pill bugs, pecking, pecking, pecking, and still the vireo stayed right there on that branch, turning its head sideways at us and singing, and Grandfather made one deep sound in his throat-like a stone being rolled away-and then he began to sing back to the bird, not just imitating the warbler's call, but singing a whole warbler song, making up warbler sentences, warbler declarations. Other warblers came in from out of the brush and surrounded us, and still Grandfather kept whistling and trilling. More birds flew in. Grandfather sang to them, too. With high little sounds in his throat, he called in the mourning doves and the little Inca doves that were starting to move into this country, from the south, and whose call I liked very much, a slightly younger, faster call that seemed to complement the eternity-becking coo of the mourning dove. Grandfather sang until dark, until the birds stopped answering his songs and instead went back into the brush to go to roost, and the fireflies began to drift out of the bushes like sparks and the coyotes began to howl and yip. Grandfather had long ago finished all the tea, sipping it between birdsongs to keep his voice fresh, and now he was tired, too tired to even fold the umbrella. .... I was afraid that with the miracle of birdsong, it was Grandfather's last night on earth-that the stars and the birds and the forest had granted him one last gift-and so I drove slowly, wanting to remember the taste, smell, and feel of all of it it, and to never forget it. But when I stopped the truck he seemed rested, and was in a hurry to get out and go join Father, who was sitting on the porch in the dark listening to one of the spring-training baseball games on the radio.

He finishes and wipes his mouth. As he folds his napkin he says, “As the poet once said, ‘Love has more faces than the moon.’” “What the hell does that mean?” “I have no idea. But it’s very pretty, don’t you think?

I took out the round, crusty bread and made a hole in the centre with my thumb. Then I opened the tin of sardines with the little key that came with it, carefully twisting it sideways, smartly avoiding the released oil spurt. I poured the contents into the hole in the bread, gently spreading the sardines in tomato sauce evenly with my Swiss knife. I took out the cotton napkin, folded it over the bread and pressed lightly for a few seconds. I was very fussy about sardines and I had my own set of rules on how to eat them. I removed the napkin and examined the bread from all sides, making sure that it was thoroughly soaked with the juice on the bottom while remaining crusty on top. Satisfied, l bit into it

Try the gougères," Lumière interrupted, popping one into her mouth before she could continue. It was warmed by his flame and melted on her tongue- nothing at all like the perfectly good but usually rock-hard ones she and her father baked. "Ohhh..." she couldn't help saying. "It's been so long since we had a guest!" Mrs. Potts danced around on the table happily, somehow managing to fold a napkin with her spout-nose. She tossed it into Belle's lap: a swan shape that gracefully unfolded as it fell, almost like it was flying. Belle shrank back, worried it was actually going to fly. "I can't imagine why," she muttered. And then she was distracted by the food. Piles of it. More than a feast- a banquet. There was a whole leg of lamb, multiple terrines and soufflés, three soup courses, a delicate fish in white wine broth, an orange ice in between to clear the palate... There was a water glass, a golden glass for red wine, a crystal one for white, and a saucer for consommé. There were seven forks of descending size and different numbers of tines, the last three whose use she couldn't even begin to work out.

My practice is to cut the finished product on the diagonal and then wrap it in waxed paper that I still fold the way my Aunt Gin taught me. I’d added two Milano cookies and, being ever so dainty, I included two paper napkins, one to serve as a place mat and one for dabbing my lips.

I don’t know how you drink your coffee, so I brought two packs of sugar and two creamers, and a stirrer,” she said, extending the to-go cup to him. Startled, he automatically took it. The sugar, creamer, and stirrer were in a plastic sandwich bag, along with a neatly folded paper napkin. “I’m really rushed, I need to jump in the shower,” she continued. “Could you make sure the door locks behind you as you leave? Thanks, you’re a sweetheart. Call me in a week or so.” She bent down, brushed a quick kiss across his forehead, then disappeared into the bathroom. He heard the snick of the lock as she turned it, and a moment later came the sound of running water. Huh.

I apologize,” he said stiffly. “I don’t know why I got so upset.” He brushed a few crumbs from his clothing as he stood. “If you will both excuse me, I have some reading I must complete.” Cass turned to her aunt the second Luca disappeared into the portego. “What on earth do you suppose that was about?” she asked. “It appears that during his time in France, your fiancé developed a bit of a temper,” Agnese said mildly, as though Luca’s outburst were perfectly normal. She blotted her mouth with her napkin and signaled a servant to bring her a second pastry. “Let’s just hope he saves some of that passion for your wedding night.” Cass folded her napkin and put it on the table. She felt nauseated. She replayed the conversation with Luca again and again. He hadn’t even denied returning to Venice early. It was true--he’d been in town for at least a week, maybe more. Why had he lied to her? She thought of how she had seen, for just one second, his face contorted with rage as he warned her to be more careful. It was a side of Luca she had never seen--almost as though for just one second, he had slipped on a mask. Or perhaps he had slipped out of a mask. Maybe, in that moment, he had let drop the image of the ever-composed, always righteous Luca. It was more than just jealousy or overprotectiveness. Luca was hiding something. Cass was certain of it.