Thumb Painting Quotes

I believe that what Genesis suggests is that this original self, with the print of God's thumb still upon it, is the most essential part of who we are and is buried deep in all of us as a source of wisdom and strength and healing which we can draw upon or, with our terrible freedom, not draw upon as we choose. I think that among other things all real art comes from that deepest self - painting, writing music, dance, all of it that in some way nourishes the spirit.

Patch's eyes grazed me with silent heat. My reflection swirled in them, red hair and lips aflame. I was connected to him by a force I couldn't control, a tiny thread that tethered my soul to his. With the moon at his back, shadows painted the faint hollows beneath his eyes and cheekbones, making him look breathtakingly handsome and equally diabolical. His hands steadied my face, holding me still before him. The wind tangled my hair around his wrists, twining us together. His thumbs moved across my cheekbones in a slow, intimate caress. Despite the cold, a steady burn coiled up inside me, vulnerable to his touch. His fingers traced lower, lower, leaving behind a hot, delicious ache. I closed my eyes, my joints melting. He lit me up like a flame, light and heat burning at a depth I'd never fathomed. His thumb stroked my lip, a soft, seductive tease. I gave a sharp sigh of pleasure. "Kiss you now?" he asked. I couldn't speak; a wilted no was my reply. His mouth, hot and daring, met mine. All play had left him, and he kissed me with his own black fire, deep and possessive, consuming my body, my soul, and laying waste to all past notions of what it meant to be kissed.

I want to watch you come,” he whispers, eyes moving across my face. He pulls his thumb back and paints a wet line across my lower lip. “I want to feel you squeezing me and I want to eat your greedy little noises.

The Affordable Health Care for Americans Act, passed by the House of Representatives on November 7, 2009, was 1,990 pages long. You could stand on it to paint the ceiling. The entire U.S. Constitution can be printed on eight pages. That's eight pages to run a whole country for 221 years versus four reams of government pig latin if you slam your thumb in a car door.

He sat on the edge of my bed. He didn't say anything at first, just stared at my toenails. I curled them under instinctively and immediately was worried that I'd messed up my painting job. I let them uncurl. Only one was marred. I used my thumb to rub most of the polish off of it and then I stared at my foot, which suddenly looked so vulnerable and imperfect with the one toe ringed in hot pink polish but bare on the inside of the nail. Like I'd started but had forgotten to finish being beautiful.

Unfortunately, Da Vinci was a prankster who often amused himself by quietly gnawing at the hand that fed him. He incorporated in may of his Christian paintings hidden symbolism that was anything but Christian - tributes to his own beliefs and a subtle thumbing of his nose at the Church.

This is my friend Veronica,” I told him. “And this is Kaidan.” “Oh, I've heard all about you.” Veronica gave him a big smile. His brow elevated, but he didn't take the bait. Instead, he stared at me funny. “Nice wart.” Leaning forward without touching me, he flicked the wart from the tip of my nose. Veronica let out a loud cackle, proving she should be the one in my costume. “I told you it was stupid!” She gloated. With my pointer finger, I moved the paint around my nose to fill in the blank spot. When I finished, he was still watching me. “Your hair's grown a lot,” I said to him. “So has your bottom.” My eyes rounded and blood rushed to my face. Veronica hooted with hilarity, bending at the waist. Even Jay let out a loud snicker, the traitor. I wished Kaidan weren't so perceptive, but it was true. The feminine curves that had always eluded me were finally making an appearance. Stupid tight dress. “Dude, you can get away with anything,” said the pirate to the straight-faced ape. “I meant it as a compliment.” “That was awesome.” Veronica grabbed Jay by the hand. “Come on. Let's go find me a drink.” She winked at me as they ambled away. I gave my attention to the dry, trampled grass and scattered cans for a moment before working up the nerve to say something. “My dad gave me a cell phone.” And a car. And a ton of money. Kaidan set the ape head on the ground and pulled his phone from a fuzzy pocket, blowing off brown lint. Then he held his furry thumbs above the buttons and nodded at me. I started to give him my number, but his brow creased in frustration with the big, costumed hands. “Here,” I said, taking his phone. Saving my number for him gave me a thrill.

Russell had lost the thumb and index finger on his left hand when he was young. He moved the thumb he still had around like he was grinding something into the white tablecloth and said, “Dust to dust.” I

Morning struck with the promise of a blazing summer's day. More of a threat than a promise. When you watch from a shaded veranda, sipping iced wine as the Red March summer paints lemons onto garden boughs—that's promise. When you have to toil a whole day in the dust to cover a thumb's distance on the map—that's threat.

I feel completely embarrassed and remember the lock on the door and think: He knows, he knows, it shows, shows completely. “He’s out back,” Mr. Garret tells me mildly, “unpacking shipments.” Then he returns to the papers. I feel compelled to explain myself. “I just thought I’d come by. Before babysitting. You, know, at your house. Just to say hi. So . . . I’m going to do that now. Jase’s in back, then? I’ll just say hi.” I’m so suave. I can hear the ripping sound of the box cutter before I even open the rear door to find Jase with a huge stack of cardboard boxes. His back’s to me and suddenly I’m as shy with him as I was with his father. This is silly. Brushing through my embarrassment, I walk up, put my hand on his shoulder. He straightens up with a wide grin. “Am I glad to see you!” “Oh, really?” “Really. I thought you were Dad telling me I was messing up again. I’ve been a disaster all day. Kept knocking things over. Paint cans, our garden display. He finally sent me out here when I knocked over a ladder. I think I’m a little preoccupied.” “Maybe you should have gotten more sleep,” I offer. “No way,” he says. Then we just gaze at each other for a long moment. For some reason, I expect him to look different, the way I expected I would myself in the mirror this morning . . . I thought I would come across richer, fuller, as happy outside as I was inside, but the only thing that showed was my lips puffy from kisses. Jase is the same as ever also. “That was the best study session I ever had,” I tell him. “Locked in my memory too,” he says, then glances away as though embarrassed, bending to tear open another box. “Even though thinking about it made me hit my thumb with a hammer putting up a wall display.” “This thumb?” I reach for one of his callused hands, kiss the thumb. “It was the left one.” Jase’s face creases into a smile as I pick up his other hand. “I broke my collarbone once,” he tells me, indicating which side. I kiss that. “Also some ribs during a scrimmage freshman year.” I do not pull his shirt up to where his finger points now. I am not that bold. But I do lean in to kiss him through the soft material of his shirt. “Feeling better?” His eyes twinkle. “In eighth grade, I got into a fight with this kid who was picking on Duff and he gave me a black eye.” My mouth moves to his right eye, then the left. He cups the back of my neck in his warm hands, settling me into the V of his legs, whispering into my ear, “I think there was a split lip involved too.” Then we are just kissing and everything else drops away. Mr. Garret could come out at any moment, a truck full of supplies could drive right on up, a fleet of alien spaceships could darken the sky, I’m not sure I’d notice.

I saw them,” he said. I frowned. “Saw what?” He took a deep breath as he eyed me. “The paintings.” For a moment, I didn’t get where he was going with this. Not when he traced the curve of my cheek with his thumb and not when a soft smile curved his lips. And then it hit me. “The paintings?” I swallowed and started to sit up, but he didn’t let me get very far. “The paintings at my place?” When he nodded, I felt my face heat like I was out under the summer sun. “The ones that are . . . ?” “Of me?” he supplied. I squeezed my eyes shut. “Oh my God. Seriously?” “Yes.” Mortified, I didn’t know what to say. “They were in my closet. Why were you in my closet?” “Looking for a psycho stalker,” he answered. My eyes popped opened. “That . . . that was like two weeks ago! You saw them back then and didn’t say anything.” Reece sat up, bringing me with him. Somehow my body ended up between his legs and we were face-to-face. “I didn’t say anything, because I figured you’d respond this way.” “Of course I’d respond this way! It’s embarrassing. You probably think I’m some kind of freak. A stalker—a creepy stalker who paints pictures of you when you’re not around.” “I don’t think you’re a stalker, babe.” His voice was dry. I screwed up my face. “I can’t believe you saw them.” He chuckled, and my eyes narrowed on him. “Honestly? I really didn’t know how you truly felt about me until I saw them.” My brows flew up. “I thought you were all-knowing.” Reece smirked. “I had my suspicions that you were in love with me from the first time you laid eyes on me.” “Oh dear baby Jesus in a manger,” I muttered. “But I don’t think I was a hundred percent until I saw those paintings, especially the one of me in the kitchen. You painted that after . . . after I left.” His brows lowered as he gave a little shake of his head. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I think it’s sweet.

If I were going to paint the dimension I see in front of me, I’d load my palette up with burnt umber, opaque black, a spectrum of grays—nothing brighter than that. I’d have to grind something into the paint with my thumb, some sort of grit or ash, because the grime here goes deeper than surfaces.

Life batters and shapes us in all sorts of ways before it's done, but those original selves which we were born with, and which I believe we continue in some measure to be no matter what, are selves which still echo with the holiness of their origin. I believe that what Genesis suggests is that this original self, with the print of God's thumb still upon it, is the most essential part of who we are and is buried deep in all of us as a source of wisdom and strength and healing which we can draw upon or, with our terrible freedom, not draw upon as we choose. I think that among other things all real art comes from that deepest self – painting, writing music, dance, all of it that in some way nourishes the spirit and enriches the understanding. I think that our truest prayers come from there too, the often unspoken, unbidden prayers that can rise out of the lives of unbelievers as well as believers whether they recognize them as prayers or not. And I think that from there also come our best dreams and our times of gladdest playing and taking it easy and all those moments when we find ourselves being better or stronger or braver or wiser than we are.

Nobody will laugh at you,” I murmured, bringing my hands to her throat and stroking downward with my thumbs. It was a move that always seem to both relax and turn her on. She melted under my touch. “And if they do, I’ll clobber them with my stilettos. How does that sound?

LULL (November, 1939) The winds of hatred blow Cold, cold across the flesh And chill the anxious heart; Intricate phobias grow From each malignant wish To spoil collective life. Now each man stands apart. We watch opinion drift, Think of our separate skins. On well-upholstered bums The generals cough and shift Playing with painted pins. The arbitrators wait; The newsmen suck their thumbs. The mind is quick to turn Away from simple faith To the cant and fury of Fools who will never learn; Reason embraces death, While out of frightened eyes Still stares the wish to love.

This could be your big ticket,” he said. “You know what happens to you at art school?” I shook my head. “All that good natural technique you have? All that detail? They’ll beat it right out of you. They’ll be so threatened by it, they’ll make you start throwing paint at the canvas like a monkey. By the time you graduate, the only thing you’ll be able to do is teach art to high school kids.” Okay, I thought. I’m glad he’s excited for me. “On the plus side, you’ll probably get laid a lot.” I gave him a nod and a quick thumbs-up. He patted me on the shoulder and then left me alone.

I am slowly learning to disregard the insatiable desire to be special. I think it began, the soft piano ballad of epiphanic freedom that danced in my head, when you mentioned that "Van Gogh was her thing" while I stood there in my overall dress, admiring his sunflowers at the art museum. And then again on South Street, while we thumbed through old records and I picked up Morrissey and you mentioned her name like it was stuck in your teeth. Each time, I felt a paintbrush on my cheeks, covering my skin in grey and fading me into a quiet, concealed background that hummed everything you've ever loved has been loved before, and everything you are has already been on an endless loop. It echoed in your wrists that I stared at, walking (home) in the middle of the street, and I felt like a ghost moving forward in an eternal line, waiting to haunt anyone who thought I was worth it. But no one keeps my name folded in their wallet. Only girls who are able to carve their names into paintings and vinyl live in pockets and dust bunnies and bathroom mirrors. And so be it, that I am grey and humming in the background. I am forgotten Sundays and chipped fingernail polish and borrowed sheets. I'm the song you'll get stuck in your head, but it will remind you of someone else. I am 2 in the afternoon, I am the last day of winter, I am a face on the sidewalk that won't show up in your dreams. And I am everywhere, and I am nothing at all.

Finally, he slipped his arms around her too. Her eyes closed in relief. “I was thinking,” His voice rumbled against her ear. “That I’ve brought you so much trouble after everything you’ve done for me. Maybe it’s not too late to fix it. If I leave…” “No!” She pulled away and looked up into his face. It was swollen red around one eye and his nose. Brown flecks of paint marred the blue swirls. “That’s not going to solve anything.” He stroked the side of her face, his thumb lingering across her lips. “If I leave, it will be better.” “Not for me.” Tears welled at the corners of her eyes and she blinked them away. He gathered her close again, kissing the top of her head and rubbing his hand on her back. “Don’t cry. ” When Sarah thought about it later, she would realize that he had never added, “I’ll stay.

...Everything's all swish and swanky. It's horrible. And what's with all this pink rubbish you've got strewn around the place?' My aunt held up between her thumb and forefinger the pink cushion she'd been leaning on, as if handling something unspeakably repulsive. 'Pink maximizes your romantic potential!' I cried. My aunt had succeeded in striking a nerve. I clenched my fists tight to hide my fuchsia-painted nails.

Then fingers catch my chin, and my breath catches in turn. Kai tilts my head up to meet his gaze, fingers dancing along my jaw. He’s looking at me like one would a painting – drinking in every detail, delighting in its originality, deeming it a work of art. He tilts my head to the side, turning my cheek the light. Instead, I watch him watch me. Watch his eyes roam over my face. Watch his chest heave with shaky breaths. Watch a muscle tick in his cheek. Watch a smile twitch his lips. His next words are a murmur, as if he’s muttering his innermost thoughts while his thumb continues to wander over my lip. “Will you forever be the prize I am aimlessly trying to win?” “Is that all I am to you? A trophy?” “Oh, darling, a trophy implies that I won it, earned it, deserve it. But if I get to have you, it will be because you let me.

As we walk away I know they’re watching, these two men who aren’t yet permitted to touch women. They touch with their eyes instead and I move my hips a little, feeling the full red skirt sway around me. It’s like thumbing your nose from behind a fence or teasing a dog with a bone held out of reach, and I’m ashamed of myself for doing it, because none of this is the fault of these men, they’re too young. Then I find I’m not ashamed after all. I enjoy the power; power of a dog bone, passive but there. I hope they get hard at the sight of us and have to rub themselves against the painted barriers, surreptitiously. They will suffer, later, at night, in their regimented beds. They have no outlets now except themselves, and that’s a sacrilege. There are no more magazines, no more films, no more substitutes; only me and my shadow, walking away from the two men, who stand at attention, stiffly, by a roadblock, watching our retreating shapes.

He’s licking the inside of my breasts like they’re luscious, sweet fruits. I run my fingers in his hair, bow into him, beg, “Please.” He hums against my nipple. I wait for him to take it into his mouth, tense as a violin string, and when he doesn’t, when he pulls back to stare at me, I nearly groan. I do groan. A soft, miserable whine. “If you were any other woman . . .” His palms stroke my knees, spreading my legs apart. “If you were anyone but you, I would take you to bed. And I’d fuck you everywhere you let me.” His fingers are like electricity, climbing up my inner thighs, lighting up nerve endings. “I would go down on you, maybe while you’re going down on me. And because your tits look like something I’ll be dreaming about for decades, I’d ask for permission to come on them. Paint a picture.” He reaches the elastic of my panties. I inhale, sharp. “I’d clean you up and feed you before taking you home, if you wanted me to.” His thumb pushes the wet cotton

The Woman Poet // Die Dichterin You hold me now completely in your hands. My heart beats like a frightened little bird's Against your palm. Take heed! You do not think A person lives within the page you thumb. To you this book is paper, cloth, and ink, Some binding thread and glue, and thus is dumb, And cannot touch you (though the gaze be great That seeks you from the printed marks inside), And is an object with an object's fate. And yet it has been veiled like a bride, Adorned with gems, made ready to be loved, Who asks you bashfully to change your mind, To wake yourself, and feel, and to be moved. But still she trembles, whispering to the wind: "This shall not be." And smiles as if she knew. Yet she must hope. A woman always tries, Her very life is but a single "You . . ." With her black flowers and her painted eyes, With silver chains and silks of spangled blue. She knew more beauty when a child and free, But now forgets the better words she knew. A man is so much cleverer than we, Conversing with himself of truth and lie, Of death and spring and iron-work and time. But I say "you" and always "you and I." This book is but a girl's dress in rhyme, Which can be rich and red, or poor and pale, Which may be wrinkled, but with gentle hands, And only may be torn by loving nails. So then, to tell my story, here I stand. The dress's tint, though bleached in bitter lye, Has not all washed away. It still is real. I call then with a thin, ethereal cry. You hear me speak. But do you hear me feel?

The Hand of Fatima, shown painted on a house wall in Algeria, is a powerful charm and sacred symbol used in Arab and Muslim lands to protect the innocent from evil jinn or demons and from the effects of the ‘evil eye’. It symbolises generosity, hospitality, power and divine providence. As a whole, the hand represents the Muslim Holy Family: the thumb stands for the Prophet Muhammad, the index finger his daughter Fatima, the second finger her husband Ali, and the third and fourth fingers their sons Hassan and Hussein respectively.

Any other orders?" "No,but an observation." "I'm fascinated." "No,you're irritated again,but I'll tell you anyway.Your mouth's more appealing naked as it is now than when it's painted as it was this morning." "So you don't approve of lipstick?" "Not at all.Some women need it.You don't, so it's just a distraction." Baffled,nearly amused,she shook her head. "Thanks so much for the advice." She started for the house-where she'd been going to change into something cooler in the first place. "Keeley." She stopped,but instead of turning merely glanced over her shoulder to where he stood,thumbs in the pockets of ancient jeans. "Yes?" "It's nothing.I just wanted to try out your name.I like it." "So do I.Isn't that handy?" This time he blew out a breath as she strode off-long legs in tight pants and tall boots. He lifted her soft drink, took a deep sip.Playing with fire with that one,Donnelly,he warned himself. Since he was damned sure singed fingers wouldn't be all he would get if he risked a touch,it was best to back away before the heat became too tempting to resist.

LIFE BATTERS AND shapes us in all sorts of ways before it’s done, but those original selves which we were born with and which I believe we continue in some measure to be no matter what are selves which still echo with the holiness of their origin. I believe that what Genesis suggests is that this original self, with the print of God’s thumb still upon it, is the most essential part of who we are and is buried deep in all of us as a source of wisdom and strength and healing which we can draw upon or, with our terrible freedom, not draw upon as we choose. I think that among other things all real art comes from that deepest self—painting, writing music, dance, all of it that in some way nourishes the spirit and enriches the understanding. I think that our truest prayers come from there too, the often unspoken, unbidden prayers that can rise out of the lives of unbelievers as well as believers whether they recognize them as prayers or not. And I think that from there also come our best dreams and our times of gladdest playing and taking it easy and all those moments when we find ourselves being better or stronger or braver or wiser than we are.

Who’s that hot piece of cowboy standing with Nathan?” She pointed toward one end of the barn by a stack of hay bales. A scowl tightened all the muscles in his face as he followed the length of her arm to the direction of her fingertip. Before he could answer, she was already pulling him again. This time toward his cousin. “Nate, who’s your friend?” she asked, not bothering with hellos. Letting go of Caleb’s hand and leaving him feeling empty, she shifted her weight to her toes when she stopped in front of Preston. “Your eyes remind me of those old Sprite bottles. I found one at a flea market once. I think it’s still lying around somewhere in my room.” Nathan’s chuckle caught her attention. “Diana Alexander, let me introduce you to Preston Grant. He’s a childhood friend of mine and Caleb’s. Pres, this is Didi.” “Can I paint you naked?” she asked, unabashed, looking up at him. Nathan’s chuckles became full-blown laughter. She hiked her thumb at Caleb. His scowl deepened. “This one’s too shy.” “It’s nice to meet you, Didi,” Preston said. He seemed unperturbed by her request. The bastard. She danced to Nathan’s side and leaned in conspiratorially, not taking her eyes away from Preston. “Between you and me,” she whispered loud enough for Caleb and the object of her fascination to hear, “just how far does his tan go?” That had done it. The words came out of his mouth without thinking. “If you’re going to paint someone naked, it will be me.” With impatience running through his veins, he laced their fingers together and tugged. “Come on.

He paused and eyed her as if she were an agate discovered in gravel. "But what a very sharp tongue you have for a housekeeper." Bridget's heart sank- she knew better than to speak so frankly. It was never good for a servant to be noticed by a master- particularly this master. "Come." He beckoned her closer with his forefinger and she saw the flash of a jeweled gold ring on his left thumb. She swallowed and opened her right hand, silently dropping the miniature to the lush carpet. As she walked toward him she nudged the little painting under the enormous bed with the side of her foot. She stopped a pace away from him. His lips curved, sly and sensual. "Closer." She stepped nearer until her plain, practical black linsey-woolsey skirts were crushed against his purple velvet knees. Her heart beat hard and swift, but she was confident her expression didn't show her fear. Still smiling, he held out his hands, palms upward. His hands were long-fingered and elegant. The hands of a musician- or a swordsman. She stared down at them a moment, confused. He quirked an eyebrow and nodded. Bridget placed her hands on top of his. Palm to palm. She expected searing heat or deathly cold and was a little surprised to instead feel human warmth. She'd been hired little more than a fortnight before the duke had supposedly been banished. In that time he had never struck her as human- or humane. "Ah," His Grace murmured, cocking his head with interest. "What feminine hands you have, despite your station in life." His blue eyes flashed at her from under dark eyelashes, a secretive smile playing about his mouth. She met his gaze stonily. His lips quirked and he looked down again. "Small, plump, with neat, round nails." He turned her hands over so that they now rested palms-up in his. "I once knew a Greek girl who swore she could read a man's life story from the lines on his hands." He dropped her left hand to trace the lines on her right palm with a forefinger. His touch sent a frisson along her nerves and Bridget couldn't hold back a shudder.

Oh, Gray, she said. Oh, gray, indeed. As in, oh Gray what the holy hell has come over you and what the devil do you intend to do about it? He took the coward’s way out. He looked away. “I thought you were painting a portrait. Of me.” She turned her head, following his gaze to her easel. A vast seascape overflowed the small canvas. Towering thunderclouds and a violent, frothy sea. And slightly off center, a tiny ship cresting a massive wave. “I am painting you.” “What, am I on the little boat, then?” It was a relief to joke. The relief was short-lived. “No,” she said softly, turning back to look at him. “I’m on the little boat. You’re the storm. And the ocean. You’re…Gray, you’re everything.” And that was when things went from “very bad” to “worse.” “I can’t take credit for the composition. It’s inspired by a painting I once saw, in a gallery on Queen Anne Street. By a Mr. Turner.” “Turner. Yes, I know his work. No relation, I suppose?” “No.” She looked back at the canvas. “When I saw it that day, so brash and wild…I could feel the tempest churning in my blood. I just knew then and there, that I had something inside me-a passion too bold, too grand to keep squeezed inside a drawing room. First I tried to deny it, and then I tried to run from it…and then I met you, and I saw you have it, too. Don’t deny it, Gray. Don’t run from it and leave me alone.” She sat up, still rubbing his cheek with her thumb. Grasping his other hand, she drew it to her naked breast. Oh, God. She was every bit as soft as he’d dreamed. Softer. And there went his hand now. Trembling. “Touch me, Gray.” She leaned forward, until her lips paused a mere inch away from his. “Kiss me.” Perhaps that dagger had missed his heart after all, because the damned thing was hammering away inside his chest. And oh, he could taste her sweet breath mingling with his. Her lips were so close, so inviting. So dangerous. Panic-that’s what had his knees trembling and his heart hammering and his lips spouting foolishness. It had to be panic. Because something told Gray that he could see her mostly naked, and watch her toes curl as she reached her climax, and even cup her dream-soft breast in his palm-but somehow, if he touched his lips to hers, he would be lost. “Please,” she whispered. “Kiss me.

Whether you are a good or bad writer is an irrelevancy when you first begin. What's important is that you write, you get up in the morning and you say, "I'm going to treat this like a job and I'm not going to just do this when I feel like it. I'm going to really get to work on making this the best I can make it, and work hard to achieve something". You can't sit around waiting for inspiration to strike like lightning, cause you'll wait around for a long time. Maybe once every blue moon a piece of lightning will strike, but most of the time you'll wait around twiddling your thumbs. What you have to do is just get on with it, and write whatever comes out and not worry over much about whether the punctuation is right or the spelling is right or even if the order of the words is right, but just get on with it. "You have to go after, seek after the things which are truthful to you. And I mean truthful. If you don't believe in Christ, then don't have a hero whipping out holy water when it suits him, because you're not telling the truth about what you believe about the world. If you don't believe that the image of Christ is ethicasy in the world, then don't have your hero use it in such a way. All you doing is accessing a series of cliches from somebody else's work. If you're gay, write about gay characters. If you're straight, write about straight characters. If you're straight and confused, write about straight and confused characters. If your passion is about painting and football, write about painting and football. Write about your mother, write about your father, write about things you know, and then let your imagination lurk on those things and develop them into something new and fresh even for you. Surprise yourself, astonish yourself, and tell the truth.

What is the best thing you've ever eaten?" Poulet rôti. I was sure that my mother was going to say the poulet rôti from L'Ami Louise in Paris because she'd sat next to Jacques Chirac there and he'd said that since she was a chef, perhaps she would cook something for him. And so she did. She went right back into the kitchen and whipped up something fabulous. After that, they used goose as well as duck fat when frying their potatoes, because it had been her way. I mouthed Poulet rôti into the pillow. But my mother was quiet. She could have made conversation, little noises while she was thinking. But she didn't. Lou didn't care. "Masgouf," she said. "From an Iraqi restaurant that's closed now." I sat up. I opened my mouth. I almost yelled, What? But she was still talking. "I went there with her dad years and years ago." I imagined her jerking her thumb in the direction of my room. "The company was like watching paint dry, but the food was fantastic. Out of this world." "And?" Lou said. "And," my mother said, "I went back a couple of years ago, just to see, and it was closed up. Totally empty and sad. One silver tray sat in the middle of the place, I remember. Broke my heart to pieces." "Masgouf?" Lou said. I was already out of bed, sockless and by the bookshelf, ripping through the index of The Joy of Cooking, then Cook Everything, then, finally, Recipes from All Over. I found it. "'Traditional Iraqi fish dish, grilled with tamarind and/or lemon, salt, and pepper,'" I whispered, shocked. "It was heaven," my mother said. "Literally heaven. I've tried to replicate it, I can't tell you how many times." For a second, I saw spots. I would have bet my life on it- on the poulet rôti. "You know how they say that life imitates art?" my mother said. "Well, life imitated masgouf. The fish was so good, so tender, and we ate it with our fingers. For a little while, I convinced myself that life could be so simple." Which meant happiness. Masgouf was my mother's happiness.

You said you wouldn't bed me tonight." Her voice sounded small, fearful. She hated it. "I'm not. I'm merely going to help you to your feet." She placed her hand in his. Hers seemed so tiny, and when he closed his fingers around it, she was incredibly aware that he could easily break her with very little effort. She was surprised by the coarseness of his flesh. These were not the hands of a gentleman. He drew her up, then expertly moved her arm behind her back, somehow snagging her other wrist until both were held within his firm grasp. With his free hand, he cradled her face, stroked her cheek with his thumb. "You will learn to do things as I like them done," he said softly, in a voice that promised pleasures. His eyes captured and held hers, and she thought that even if he wasn't holding her, she'd not have been able to break away. "I have particular needs. The first is that you are never to wrap your arms around me." "Why not?" she whispered. "Because it's what I require." He lowered his lips to hers, and she realized that if he hadn't manacled her wrists that her arms would have twined about him of their own accord, simply to ensure that she remained standing when her knees grew so weak. His tongue toyed with her mouth, painting it, outlining it as though he wanted to be intimately familiar with it. Then he was urging her lips apart and delving into the depths of her mouth with an urgency that astounded her. He might not like her, but it was becoming plain enough rather quickly that he was quite fond of her mouth. He explored every inch of it, every nook, every cranny, every hidden corner. When she dared to meet the thrust of his tongue with a thrust of her own, he groaned low and pressed her against his broad chest. Through the thin linen of his shirt and the maid's well-worn nightly attire, she could feel the thudding of his heart, sense its increase in tempo. When she tried to break free of his hold, his hand clamped harder on her wrists, just shy of causing pain.

Cole was still working on the car when a dark green Lexus stopped across his drive. Cole straightened, and was surprised to see Pike and a young woman with ragged hair and big sunglasses get out. The girl looked wary, and Pike was wearing a long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves down. Pike never wore long-sleeved shirts. Cole limped out to meet them. “Joseph. You should have told me we had guests. I would have cleaned up.” Cole smiled at the girl, spreading his hands to show off his gym shorts, bare feet, and wax on, wax off T-shirt. Mr. Personable, making a joke of his sweat-soaked appearance. “I’m Elvis. This is me, doing my Ralph Macchio impersonation.” The girl painted him with a smile that was smart and sharp, and jerked a thumb at Pike. “Thank God you have a personality. Riding around with him is like riding with a corpse.” “Only until you get to know him. Then you can’t shut him up.” Cole noticed how Pike touched her back without familiarity, moving her into the carport. Pike said, “Let’s go in.” Cole glanced at the Lexus, already sensing this wasn’t a social visit.

If only she had lived back then... experienced a real ball... not this play-acting. "Wouldn't that be amazing to truly be at this ball in 1834?" she whispered. The silver under her thumb flared with heat. The room spun. The air, colors and sounds muted as if she was inside an abstract color painting.

That's when she saw his gaze drift downward, alighting on the heart-shaped pendant clasped around her neck. "You're wearing it," he said, his words carrying a wondering tone. Reaching up, she fingered the amethysts, then smoothed her thumb over the flat piece of porcelain in the center with its tiny painted garden. "Yes. Because I realize now that it was given in love." "It was, even if I was too blind to know it at the time. Something else for which I must beg your forgiveness." "It's yours." She laid her palm on his chest near his heart. "Did you really carry the pendant around with you when we were apart?" "Constantly. It made me feel closer to you. Strange, I suppose, considering you wore it for such a brief time." "Not so strange," she reassured. "I kept a handkerchief of yours, though I never planned to tell you that." Leaning near, he pressed his lips to hers. "Besotted. The pair of us." "Definitely.

He shushed her quietly as he slipped his fingers into her hair, his thumb resting at the hollow of her ear as he cradled her head in his hand. He tilted her up to look at him. It felt incredible. It felt wrong. It was overwhelming. She couldn’t do anything except feel him. His hand, his touch, his nails against her scalp. But then, there was what came with it. The feeling of dark wings spreading out against a night sky. The joy of the hunt. The beauty of the stars painted behind a crimson moon that followed him wherever he went. Beneath it was the taste of sand. The taste of an old sun, burning him. Blood. Hunger. The joy of victory. The coldness of the grave. Him.

Tom Thumb’s Blues” paints a picture of bluffing and loss, of being in over your head, of fearing that you can never return home. When one has strayed so far away from the road, the only recourse is to go all the way back, as north and east as Juarez is south and west. “I’m going back to New York City, I do believe I’ve had enough,

My grandmother brought me here with my twin sister, Alliw, when we were five years old,” Willa said. “She asked us to dip our hands into a bowl of paint she had made from berries. And then we pressed our palms right here, one beside the other, the left and the right, the Willa and Alliw, just like a thousand twins had done before us.” Trying to keep her breathing steady and strong, Willa put her left hand over the print she had made on the wall eight years before. To her surprise, Adelaide slowly leaned forward and put her right hand on the print next to hers. Willa thought Adelaide was trying to show that she was on her side, that she was her friend, and that although they were human and Faeran, they were sisters in a way. Their hands were positioned opposite to one another, their thumbs almost touching, as if a single girl was pressing her two hands to the wall. Because of the way the light was falling through the holes in the ceiling, Willa’s hand was cast in shadow, but Adelaide’s hand was bright. Left and right, dark and light, Faeran and human, green skin and white…Everything should have been different about their hands. But the more Willa looked, the more she marveled at what she was seeing. Other than the color, their hands were identical in size and shape, down to the wrinkles on their fingers. Willa’s heart began to pound in her chest. How could this be? How could their hands be so similar? She slowly turned her head and looked at Adelaide. Adelaide stared back at her, her eyes wide, as amazed as she was. And then Adelaide gazed all around at the walls of the cave and the long flow of the River of Souls. Willa watched as a trace of fear crept into Adelaide’s face. “Willa…” Adelaide whispered, her voice trembling with astonishment. “I think I’ve been here before.

You don’t remember putting on a strip show for your friends in The Orb?” he asked, looking into my eyes. I frowned a little. I could remember playing some Fae drinking game and forgetting the rules so that I lost a hell of a lot and consumed more than my share of the drinks. I had to admit that I wouldn’t have shied away from a dare like that but it didn’t really explain our current situation. “No,” I said eventually. “Well you ripped all the buttons off of your shirt right before you passed out. I brought you back here to keep an eye on you - much to the disgust of your little Pegasus friend I might add.” “Sofia?” Yeah, I could imagine she wouldn’t have wanted Darius Acrux taking me off to his room after all the shit he’d put me through. He obviously hadn’t listened to her complaints though. “She’s pretty loyal to you,” he said. “But as she couldn’t exactly challenge me, she had to accept that I was just going to look after you. You took care of stripping off the rest of your clothes after that. Right before you straddled me and stole my shirt.” I opened my mouth to protest against the idea of that but it actually sounded vaguely familiar. Darius was just watching me like I was somehow fascinating to him and I couldn’t help but stare back into his deep brown eyes. His thumb shifted, painting a line of fire across my thigh and my heart thumped a little harder in response. “And then we just... slept?” I confirmed. “I wouldn’t have touched you while you were wasted like that,” he said, his gaze travelling over my face and landing on my mouth. But I’m not wasted now... I reached out slowly and pressed my palm down on his chest so that I could feel his heart pounding to the same fierce tune as my own. I dropped my gaze to the back of my hand so that I didn’t have to see the way he was looking at me anymore. His skin was flaming hot beneath my palm, the depth of his fire magic burning within him like an inferno. I wanted to look up again and catch his gaze with mine but if I did then I was fairly sure that I knew what would happen. And this dark temptation before me was so much more monster than man. I’d never had an opportunity to really study the tattoos which marked his flesh before and I let myself look at the patterns which wove their way over his shoulders and chest in the dim light. A wing swept across his ribs from some design on his back, the feathers burning like they were made of fire themselves. The red Libra symbol on his forearm began a network of constellations and star signs which formed a sleeve over his bicep, though it stood out starkly as the only image with any colour in it. Flames climbed over his left shoulder from the tattoo covering his back which I knew spurted from the mouth of a dragon. I was sure I could have lost myself in the art on his back if I could see it and I itched to ask him about them but it seemed too personal somehow and I held my tongue. I shifted my gaze back to my hand above his pounding heart where his skin was bare of any marks. I cast about for something else to ask him as the silence spread and a kind of expectant energy seemed to build between us. I could still feel him watching me, waiting for me to look up and give him the answer to the question which was hanging between us. (Darius POV)

In the middle of the night, Keith Richards painted Capote’s hotel room door with ketchup, thumbing his nose at the snooty Mr. Capote and the Princess with a not-so-veiled reference to In Cold Blood.

Hey, hey,” she calls gently, bringing my attention to her. “It’s fine. I stabbed him, and this is the result. Totally worth it, if you ask me.” Releasing her, I brush the pad of my thumb across her lip. “You look beautiful painted in his blood. È il colore che preferisco su di te.

Game’s over, Hawthorn. Any last words?” It seemed to hit her at once. What he’d said. That she’d lost their wager. “Go to hell, Prince.” Elm laughed, deep and loud enough to shake the barbs in him. “You have a wonderful mouth.” He tapped the Chalice three times, severing its hold. “And now, it’s all mine.” He hooked Ione’s chin between his thumb and index finger, the same way she’d held his in the dungeon, and leaned in, halting just before their lips grazed. When Elm whispered into her mouth, he made sure to touch her bottom lip with his thumb, where he knew she’d be warm. “You really thought I wouldn’t remember you?” She had. He could tell by the flare in her eyes. “All that talk of pleasure and warmth and that terrible, unquiet ache between your legs,” he murmured. “You painted such a pretty picture for me. And wouldn’t it be fun, denying me a kiss, had I lost our bet? To take my Scythe and render me helpless?” His top lip brushed hers. “Tell me, Hawthorn—does it make you feel something, toying with me like this?

A movement in the shrubbery caught my eye. Knox Morgan, wearing camouflage and green face paint, rose out of a rhododendron with his phone. He gave me the thumbs-up.

How’d you find me?” “You said if you could be anywhere, you’d be in Greece with me. I hoped that meant you came to wait,” he says softly, thumbing my chin.

Over by the campfire, Tyson let loose with his paintball gun. A blue projectile splattered against one of the centaurs, hurling him backward into the lake. The centaur came up grinning, covered in swamp muck and blue paint, and gave Tyson two thumbs up.

Here they are," she exclaims, packet of biscuits in hand. They’re his favorite: chocolate with cream filling. "Nice," he says, arching his chest towards her. "Can I have one?" "I brought them on purpose," she smiles. She opens the packet and offers him one. He shakes his head. "Open it for me," he says, kissing her neck. "Hold the two sides, turn slowly and pull them apart." She does so and hands him the half with the cream on. Andrew grabs her wrist, puts his thumb in her palm and her breathing alters. He brings her hand closer and licks a hole in the cream with just the tip of his firm tongue. He looks at her and swallows the sweet, strong fingertip. She’s startled and her hand begins to shake. Then, he slowly licks all the cream with light movements as he intertwines his fingers in hers. He imagines that he’s licking her, her skin, his precious Susy. Then, he leans forward for a kiss. "Thank you." She’s enveloped in embarrassment, her cheeks painted red. "Do you always eat biscuits like that?" she jokes. He caresses her neck with his lips, licks, kisses and nibbles it slightly. "If my girlfriend’s not wearing anything under her dress, yes." She

She smiled, her arm grazing his as one of her fingers hovered over the wet paint. She pressed down, absorbing some of the liquid and then she touched the tip of Diego’s nose. He jolted, not from the slick trail running down his skin, or even the harsh chemical smell of it, but at her touch so light and yet so deliberate. She stared at him, waiting for him to react, but instead he ran his thumb across the wall and then trailed the cold paint down her neck and across her bare shoulder.

The waves lapped onto the shore in quiet, relentless ripples. A seagull screeched from somewhere down the shoreline, and another bird replied. She missed home, the comfort of her padded swing, her tall shade trees and scented lilac bushes. If she closed her eyes and blocked out the sound of the waves, she could almost imagine that she was back home in her garden, dozing on her swing under the tall oak— “Hey, Meri!” Jake’s voice shattered the illusion. She craned her head around, following the sound of his voice to an upstairs window. His elbows perched lazily on the ledge. She glared up at him. “Meridith.” “Wanna come take a look?” She’d rather beat the smug grin off his face. “Be right there.” Her bones ached as she climbed the main stairway, a repercussion of her night on the hard floor. Just beyond the guest loft, Jake stood in front of the doorway, making some final adjustment to the latch. It looked different with the area closed off from the hall. The smell of wood and some kind of chemical hung in the air. “What do you think?” He’d already hung the drywall, and the patching was drying, which explained the smell. He swung the door open, showing her the thumb-turn on the other side, then closed the door and demonstrated the lock with the key. Thank you, Vanna. “Are both doors keyed the same?” “Yep.” He threw her the new set of keys, and she caught it clumsily. She’d keep one set in her room and find a hiding spot in the kitchen for the other. He gathered his tools and supplies. Now that he was finished, maybe she could take the kids to the driving range. She could teach them how to tee off. Jake capped the drywall compound, then walked through the new doorway toward the family suite. “Where are you going?” Meridith followed him down the hall. “Patching up the other partition.” “I thought you were done.” “If I get them both patched, they’ll be ready to sand and paint on Monday. You got any more of this green?” “What? I don’t know.” He trotted down the back stairway and unlocked the new door’s thumb-turn. Meridith stopped at the top of the steps, sighing. The sooner he finished, the sooner he’d be out of her life. Out of the house, she corrected herself. That man was not in her life.

Deerfield, Massachusetts February 29, 1704 Temperature 0 degrees Mercy could not keep up the pace. Gradually the line passed her by, until she was walking with Eben Nims, and she must not fall farther behind than that, because the Indians behind Eben were the end of the line. Daniel held tight and sucked his thumb. But not only did Marah refuse to walk, she kept yelling that her feet were cold, and she wanted Stepmama, and she needed her mittens, and she was hungry. Mercy could walk, though not fast enough, and she could carry, though not easily. But she could not supply food, warmth or Stepmama. Mercy tried to believe that Stepmama was up ahead of her with the baby; that it was so crowded and chaotic Mercy could not spot her. But in her heart, she did not think Stepmama had left the stockade. “The savage put food in my pack, Mercy,” said Eben quietly. “If you slip your hand into the opening near my left shoulder, there’s a loaf of bread on top.” They walked on, considering whether the Indians would tomahawk her for stealing Eben’s own bread. Well, they’d shortly tomahawk Marah for whining, so Mercy might as well get on with it. She set the two children down, and Eben bent his knees so she could reach and Mercy fished around in the pack. She slid the loaf out. It was long and fat and crusty. Her Indian was watching. Mercy looked straight at him while she ripped off a chunk for Marah. He did nothing. Mercy decided to give some to Jemima too, which would give her something to do besides whine. She would give bread to Eliza and hope food would break Eliza’s grieving stupor. Marah didn’t take a single bite. She threw the bread across the snow. “I want Mama!” she said fiercely. She glared at Mercy, as if all this hiking and shivering were Mercy’s fault. Mercy could not abandon the bread out there in the snow. She was going to need that bread. It was all they had, and somehow Mercy had become responsible for Marah and Daniel and Ruth and Eliza and Jemima, and probably even for Eben. Mercy stepped off the trodden path to retrieve the crust, but her Indian stopped her, shaking his head. On his face was no expression but the one painted in black. His arms were tattooed with snakes that curled their fangs when he tightened his muscles. How could he go half bare in this weather? she thought, and then remembered that she wore his rabbit-lined cloak. Daniel, sitting happily on her hip, reached out from under the rabbit fur and patted the snake. The Indian tensed his upper arm to make the snake slither. Daniel giggled, so the Indian did it again, and it seemed to Mercy that he actually smiled at Daniel. Then, blessedly, he took Marah for her.

Up in the snow covered Andes, There’s only one beast you will see, Who is clever enough to learn all the stuff That one needs to obtain a degree. The Spectacled Bear is a wonder, The Spectacled Bear is no fool, The Spectacled Bear, with a wisdom that’s rare, Paid attention when he went to school. The Spectacled Bear learnt Spanish, The Spectacled Bear learnt to draw, The Spectacled Bear with time and with care, Could multiply twenty by four. The Spectacled Bear was a paragon, Gerald went on. He learned to write, paint, knit, weave and sing. He learned history and how to add up his sums without using his thumbs. But one thing made him ‘awfully depressed’ – he couldn’t spell, and had to sign his name with a cross. But one day someone gave him a parrot, (A bird that was badly behaved), But one thing it did well, and that was to spell, So the Spectacled Bear was saved. With this bird as his constant companion He writes letters to friends now with glee, And always you’ll find they are carefully signed: ‘Spectickled Bere, B.Sc.’ So if ever your teacher should ask you To spell words like ‘Zephyr’ or ‘Claret’, The thing I’d suggest that would be the best Is to go out and purchase a parrot. On

That’s how the Sukulowskis got out?” Captain Byner asked. “Yup.” Joe lit a cigarette. “Where’d they end up?” Joe tossed his match in the ashtray. “You don’t really want to know.” Rico said, “Gentlemen, I agree with you. Freddy was a fucking asshole going after Montooth in the first place.” Freddy, already aggrieved, looked even more dismayed. “You were.” Rico looked Freddy in the eye and formed a circle with the thumb and index of his right hand. “Huge asshole. Size of a fucking paint can.” He turned to the other men in the room. “But, gents, we can’t let a nigger kill a white man. Even if it’s a nigger we like, and I like Montooth Dix. I’ve broken bread with the man. But still. And we can’t let a guy who’s not in our thing kill someone who is. No matter what. Dion? Joe? You two taught

Police caught the guy responsible for smashing windows and painting swastikas outside Jewish businesses on Devon Avenue. He’s out on bail now, and this morning’s paper included a picture of him. What strikes me is that he has a very small mouth, smaller than a baby’s. I mean, tiny. If you wanted him to suck your thumb, you’d have to grease it up first. The article says he belongs to a skinhead group and has tattoos, which is strange, I think, because Jews in concentration camps had shaved heads and tattoos. You’d think the anti-Semites would go for a different look.

And I’ve never told a woman that I loved her. I did all those things for you because you’re the only person in the world who makes me feel alive.” “Really?” I rasp. His dark eyes soften, and he cups my face with both hands. “Being with you is like soaring the kite-tails of freedom.” He pauses to brush his thumb over my cheekbone. “It doesn’t matter if you’re sleeping, painting, or freaking out, each moment with you is fresh, exciting, and new. You make me feel every emotion under the sun.” “Why me?” I whisper. “Because you’re the most unique person I’ve ever met, and the opposite of what I expect. Everything about you is addictive. I would kill for you, maim for you, and step over a pile of twitching and dead bodies if it meant keeping you by my side.

For obvious reasons, the rule of thumb is that the more expensive the painting, the more important its provenance. But Van Wijngaarden had proved that you could take the opposite route and succeed beautifully, provided you could find a buyer too eager or too sure of himself to bother with paperwork and background checks. Rather than spell out every detail in a fanciful pedigree, Van Wijngaarden outlined a fairy tale and let his eager-to-buy, eager-to-believe audience conjure up its own fantasy.

I don’t like guitar anymore. I want to play marimbas.” Another time, pal. We’ve got a tour to do. So we got to rely on him not being there, and if he turned up, it was a miracle. When he was there and came to life, he was incredibly nimble. He could pick up any instruments that were lying around and come up with something. Sitar on “Paint It Black.” The marimbas on “Under My Thumb.” But for the next five days we won’t see the motherfucker, and we’ve still got a record to make. We’ve got sessions lined up and where’s Brian? Nobody can find him, and when they do, he’s in a terrible condition.

Tompkins thumbed another paint pellet into the gun and muttered business mantras to himself. Do Unto Others Before They Do Unto You. Kill or Be Killed. Either Shit or Get Out of the Kitchen. Survival of the Fittest. Make My Day.

Now, for your final lesson of the day, it's essential that you know why your title was created. Do you have any idea?" I shake my head sheepishly. "One of your ancestors, Randolph Henry Rockford, proved to be one of England's greatest military heroes at the turn of the eighteenth century. After he won a number of crucial battles for England, King George I expressed his gratitude by granting him a dukedom over the settlement of Wickersham, along with the massive funds to build a palace worthy of such a hero," Basil explains. "Of course, the papers scoffed that King George was cruel to choose Wickersham, for the land was notoriously barren, especially in comparison to Oxfordshire's other, far more verdant towns. But eventually the fifth Duchess of Wickersham, Lady Beatrice, changed all of that." "What did she do?" I ask. "I suppose you could say she was the ultimate green thumb. Within a year, ugly old Wickersham was transformed into one of the most beautiful, frequently painted landscapes in England." This is the first moment of our lesson where I feel a flicker of interest. "How did she do it?" Basil hesitates. "It's hard to separate truth from fiction on that account. I suppose we'll never know.

but the family rule of thumb was never wake a sleeping child. Sheets could be washed, a bath could wait, but the time lost comforting

Say you have a passion, any passion in the world that you do purely for the love of it—painting or drag racing or cheese making. How many times have you heard from someone, “oh, you could make money doing that? Why don’t you sell it?” How many times have you yourself followed that same line of thinking? The moment you start to take a little bit of joy in anything, you think, “How can I turn this into a job?” This line of questioning is the inescapable sickness we’re all party to, and one of the best things you can do is try to put a wall around it and protect the sanctity of your own joy with your life. To do things just for the simple pleasure of it is courageous, challenging, and a thumb in the eye of the rapacious system we live in.

Do you ever wonder where school buses go to die? I’ll tell you! They go to Central America, where they are tricked out, painted & forced to climb mountain roads picking up anyone w/ their thumb out. When I boarded the chicken bus in Sabanitas this p.m., it was already full. No one batted an eye as I snuggled in w/ 5 sacks of groceries. I could feel the exact shape & cup size of the breasts of the woman standing behind me, but she didn’t seem to mind. Then her breasts were replaced by the hard belly of a gentleman who’d given up his seat. Had to struggle not to fall forward into the man in front of me, who stood holding onto nothing like Jesus as we tore through the one-lane roads back down the other side of the mountain.

The rule of thumb is that the stolen painting ratings ten percent of its value on the black market. If the Caravaggio were worth fifty million on the open market, with such five million dirty. - Maurice Durand

These small surprises can do a lot to break the monotony of everyday routines. A few months ago I realized that though I loved our white dinnerware, I was getting a bit bored with it. But rather than consider buying a new set, I ordered two extra pink plates in each size. The pink dishes make the whole stack of plates seem more appealing, and when laid out on the table for a dinner party, they’re like joyful punctuation marks. Similarly, the “accent nail” trend, which involves painting the thumb or ring fingernail in an atypical color like lemon yellow or turquoise, offers a simple way to make a manicure special.

a shrewd and tawdry city, shining like toyland between the swamps and the sea. The night was weighted with derelicts and dancers, terminal breathing in wards, clenched fists of women as they pushed each time the pains came, chips in perfect alignment on green felt as men thumbed up the corners of the hole cards just enough to read the news, giggling young men in a chickenwire apartment painting the body of one of their chums a lovely gold, ambulances and tow trucks moving away in separate directions with a load of torn flesh or a load of ripped metal, thousands and thousands of picture tubes all telling the same jokes at the same instant to a hundred thousand living rooms, frantic rumps ram-packing the beach sand under the spread towelling, the simultaneous squirts of red tomato and yellow mustard in a hundred different places to disguise the flannelly taste of fried meat, a thousand simultaneous sobbings, thrashings, swallowings, vomitings, ejaculations, coughings, scratchings, cursings, shy touchings, whisperings, kickings. . . . He had never considered himself particularly imaginative. Never before had he felt this way about a city, and he knew that it could only be possible in a strange city, and at a time when grief and uncertainty and introspection had sharpened and heightened awareness. This great Gold Coast became a gigantic cruise ship moving through time rather than space, constantly assimilating the foods, the newborn, the gadgetry, spewing aft the unending tonnage of garbage and waste and dead bodies and broken toys, rolling imperceptibly in the slow tides of history, the passengers unaware that no city is forever, that it will end one day and the eternality of time will cover it in a silence of dust, sand and vines.

Finally his thumbing rewarded him with what he was seeking. Veronese... Veronese... of course! As he'd told Genevieve, he'd seen a Veronese painting when he'd visited Italy. Memorably because he'd found it erotic: Venus and Mars again, and this time Venus was not wearing a shred, and Mars was kneeling, getting ready to, as he'd inappropriately shared with Genevieve, give Venus a pleasuring. "Genevieve loves a particular 'kind' of painter..." Harry began in a lecturing tone. "She likes light and a grace of line, mythological subjects rich in subtext. She believes Botticelli is not rated highly enough as a painter. I happen to agree. I've seen his 'Venus and Mars' and I am quite moved by his use of mythological subjects. Very sensual." Harry looked thunderstruck. Hmm. The duke didn't know why he should feel authentically pleased by the fact that Genevieve had entrusted him with a confidence she hadn't yet confided in Harry. "She hadn't shared that particular insight with you about Botticelli, Osborne? Perhaps it's a new one. One she's had only recently.

Andie shook her head and jabbed a thumb at Eric again. “Nuh-uh. He also told Jack about the painting. I know, because Jack later ribbed me about it. Guy’s convinced I’m painting a nudie.” I smirked at that, and Andie elbowed me with a little more force. This jostled Kara who grumbled sleepily. I wrapped a protective arm around her and laughed at Andie’s indignant expression. “Oh, come on,” I said as I stifled another chuckle. “There’s no way you haven’t considered it yet.” “Well... yeah, but that was for later,” Andie hissed out. “And I didn’t want Jack of all freaking people thinking about it. You know he’s gonna tell Brad, who’s gonna tell Matt, who’s gonna tell his sister, and then the entire girl’s dorm is gonna know. And they’ll demand to see it!” The idea of an entire girl’s dorm lining up to get a peek at my naked body made me chuckle again. It was ridiculous. No way that’d happen. “Well, charge them a pretty penny for it,” I told her as I wrapped an arm around Andie as well. She pretended to grumble at the attention, but I caught a tiny little smile at the corner of her lips. “I don’t whore myself out for anything less than two hundred, Andie. I’ve got standards.

Isla had picked at the cuticle of her thumb with her ring finger and nodded dumbly along with this, tried to remember the sequence of a poem she’d wanted to quote to a patient earlier in the week: about suffering they were never wrong, the old Masters: how well they understood its human position; how it takes place while someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along. The point, of course, being the whole bright dailiness of agony, the way Icarus in the Bruegel painting could crash to earth as little but a background detail while the bland spool of life went on in the foreground; the plowman at his plow and the fabric of the day untouched, uninterrupted.

She takes my hand, and I pull her up, my thumb brushing the red ruby on her ring finger.