Slides Slippers Quotes

Then he smiles because he knows deep in his bones that his dad has gone and said something really funny probably. He kicks off his sheet and slides his feet into his slippers. Bunny sits in the living room, slumped low on the sofa, full of Geoffrey's Scotch and Poodle's cocaine.

Jiminy," says the old woman. The mothballs gleam with excitement and she claps her hands. "A wolf!" "Gram!" Siobhan glares across the room. She turns to me. "You'll have to excuse her. She's real old. Wasn't a lot integrating between the species back in her day." I pad over and put out a paw. "Pleased to meet you, madam." She blushes, the varicose veins in her cheeks swelling with blood. Instead of taking my paw to shake, however, she turns it over as if it's a piece of bruised fruit in a market. "Hmmm..." She pores over my palm, nodding like a fortune-teller. Her spectacles slide comically down the bridge of her nose, and when she looks up at me, her face is full of mock astonishment. "Oh, my! What big teeth you have!" She giggles and kicks her slippered feet. "Gram!! The old elf claps her tiny hands. "I always wanted to say that!

The sun was soft honey and rose colored along the horizon; the old trees were deep black silhouettes against it, with long purple shadows sliding out from their earth-slippered feet.

think, again, of my mother opening her front door to a Swedish sailor, the stuff of fairy tales: Rapunzel letting down her hair, Cinderella sliding her foot into the glass slipper, Sleeping Beauty awaiting a kiss. All were given one chance to step into a happily ever after—or at least it must’ve seemed that way. But was it the prince who attracted them, or merely the opportunity for escape?

I sit at my table with The Sun Also Rises open and Mo snoozing beside the typewriter. I put on a bathrobe and slippers and went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. He was holding a great bunch of roses. I type that. I type the whole chapter and the one after that and the one after that. Do I have a plan? Am I taking notes? I’m working mindlessly, like a chimpanzee. I want Hemingway’s stuff to sink into me by osmosis. But I’m paying attention too. Hemingway’s style is cinematic. He makes you see. I went to the door. It was Brett. Back of her was the count. I’m trying to copy that. When you haul yourself up into the cab of a tractor-trailer, where does your foot go? What grab-handle do you seize? With which hand? Is the metal cold? What do you see as you slide into the driver’s seat? Smell? Hear? What does the instrument panel look like? What do you see through the windshield? What emotions are you feeling? Are you excited? Scared? Bored? Do you hate being here? Do you love it? What does it mean to you? How can I, the writer, reproduce that in you, the reader?

The smell of my grandfather’s chicory coffee slides under the door. My grandmother’s slippered steps skim the wooden beams like hushed secrets.

How rude of me. I almost forgot,” Friedrich said before presenting her with the basket. Inside the basket sat a glass slipper, and nestled in the shoe’s toe, a sparkling ring. “I made the basket myself.” He removed the ring from the shoe before sliding it over her finger. On

I get a full view of her ass when she slides her feet out of her slippers, and then bends down to arrange them neatly before her nightstand. My cock hardens, her perfectly round ass overflowing her underwear. Her pussy is on full display. Just a thin piece of fabric separating her from my tongue. I close my eyes and work to regain control. I have to be quiet. She doesn’t know I’m hiding in her closet. Waiting for her to fall asleep so I can stare at her beauty in peace.