Tilt Your Phone Quotes

waiting for the other shoe to drop. Did you know it originated in cities like Chicago and New York?” “No. I did not” He tilted his head, his mouth hooking upward to one side as though he were trying not to laugh. “Tell me about it.”He was teasing me again. “Well, it did. So…”He lifted his eyebrows, “That’s all? You’re not going to tell me the specific origin of the idiom waiting for the other shoe to drop’?”I shook my head, “I don’t know it.”He mimicked me and shook his head in response, “You’re lying. You do know.”“Nope. I don’t.”“This is just like the mammals.” He sighed and placed his phone on the table. Before he took a bite from his sandwich he said, “You’re stingy with information.”My frowned deepened, “No, I’m not-”His words were somewhat garbled as he spoke between chewing, “You’re an information tease.”“What?!”“Or maybe you don’t really know the origin and you’re just making things up to impress me-” he took another bite. “I am not! It originates from the late industrial revolution, in the late 19th and early 20th century.Apartments were all built with the same floor plan, in similar design so one tenant’s bedroom was under another’s. Therefore it was normal to hear an upstairs neighbor removing his or her shoes and hearing one shoe hit the floor, then the other, when they undressed at night.”“I wonder what else they heard.” His gaze held mine, seemed to burn with a new intensity.“I suppose anything that was loud enough.

Use your phone one way, and it fuels the life of love and presence you long for. Use your phone the other way, and it robs you of everything you were made for. But remember that the phone isn’t neutral. We can’t use it the right way without habits that protect us from the wrong way. When we do nothing, they tilt us toward absence. This is why we must cultivate habits that resist absence—because we were made for presence. Cultivating the daily habit of turning your phone off for an hour each day is the keystone habit that can change the way you think about your phone and spark new daily routines that usher in a life of presence.

Teddy actually cries, he misses her so bad, and eventually he convinces her that she”—here Sadie makes quote marks with her fingers—“‘owes’ him the chance to explain.” “And she agrees to meet?” I ask, mostly because I worry I’ve been silent too long. “Yes.” “This,” I say. “This is the part I never get.” Sadie leans forward and tilts her head to the side. “That’s because while you’re trying, Win, you’re still too male to get it. Women have been conditioned to please. We are responsible not just for ourselves but everyone in our orbit. We think it is our job to comfort the man. We think we can make things better by sacrificing a bit of ourselves. But you’re also right to ask. It’s the first thing I tell my clients: If you’re ready to end it, end it. Make a clean break and don’t look back. You don’t owe him anything.” “Did Sharyn go back to him?” I ask. “For a little while. Don’t shake your head like that, Win. Just listen, okay? That’s what these psychos do. They manipulate and gaslight. They make you feel guilty, like it’s your fault. They sucker you back in.” I still don’t get it, but that’s not important, is it? “Anyway, it didn’t last. Sharyn saw the light fast. She ended it again. She stopped replying to his calls and texts. And that’s when Teddy upped his assholery to the fully psychotic. Unbeknownst to her, he bugged her apartment. He put keyloggers on her computers. Teddy has a tracker on her phone. Then he starts texting her anonymous threats. He stole all her contacts, so he floods mailboxes with malicious lies about her—to her friends, her family. He writes emails and pretends he’s Sharyn and he trashes her professors and friends. On one occasion, he contacts Sharyn’s best friend’s fiancé—as Sharyn—and

Millions of us daily take advantage of [Skype], delighted to carry the severed heads of family members under our arms as we move from the deck to the cool of inside, or steering them around our new homes, bobbing them like babies on a seasickening tour. Skype can be a wonderful consolation prize in the ongoing tournament of globalization, though typically the first place it transforms us is to ourselves. How often are the initial seconds of a video's call takeoff occupied by two wary, diagonal glances, with a quick muss or flick of the hair, or a more generous tilt of the screen in respect to the chin? Please attend to your own mask first. Yet, despite the obvious cheer of seeing a faraway face, lonesomeness surely persists in the impossibility of eye contact. You can offer up your eyes to the other person, but your own view will be of the webcam's unwarm aperture. ... The problem lies in the fact that we can't bring our silence with us through walls. In phone conversations, while silence can be both awkward and intimate, there is no doubt that each of you inhabits the same darkness, breathing the same dead air. Perversely, a phone silence is a thick rope tying two speakers together in the private void of their suspended conversation. This binding may be unpleasant and to be avoided, but it isn't as estranging as its visual counterpart. When talk runs to ground on Skype, and if the purpose of the call is to chat, I can quickly sense that my silence isn't their silence. For some reason silence can't cross the membrane of the computer screen as it can uncoil down phone lines. While we may be lulled into thinking that a Skype call, being visual, is more akin to a hang-out than a phone conversation, it is in many ways more demanding than its aural predecessor. Not until Skype has it become clear how much companionable quiet has depended on co-inhabiting an atmosphere, with a simple act of sharing the particulars of a place -- the objects in the room, the light through the window -- offering a lovely alternative to talk.

And then, with a shock like high-voltage coursing through me, the phone beside me started pealing thinly. I just stood there and stared at it, blood draining from my face. A call to a tollbooth? It must, it must be a wrong number, somebody wanted the Information Booth or-! It must have been audible outside, with all I had the slide partly closed. One of the redcaps passing by turned, looked over, then started coming across toward where I was. To get rid of him I picked up the receiver, put it to my ear. 'You'd better come out now, time's up,' a flat, deadly voice said. 'They're calling your train, but you're not getting on that one - or any other.' 'Wh-where are talking from?' 'The next booth to yours,' the voice jeered. 'You forgot the glass inserts only reach halfway down.' The connection broke and a man's looming figure was shadowing the glass in front of my eyes, before I could even get the receiver back on the hook. I dropped it full-length, tensed my right arm to pound it through his face as soon as I shoved the glass aside. He had a revolver-bore for a top vest-button, trained on me. Two more had shown up behind him, from which direction I hadn't noticed. It was very dark in the booth now, their collective silhouettes shut out all the daylight. The station and all its friendly bustle was blotted out, had receded into the far background, a thousand miles away for all the help it could give me. I slapped the glass wearily aside, came slowly out. One of them flashed a badge - maybe Crow had loaned him his for the occasion. 'You're being arrested for putting slugs in that phone. It won't do any good to raise your voice and shriek for help, try to tell people different. But suit yourself.' I knew that as well as he; heads turned to stare after us by the dozens as they started with me in their midst through the station's main-level. But not one in all that crowd would have dared interfere with what they mistook for a legitimate arrest in the line of duty. The one with the badge kept it conspicuously tilted in his upturned palm, at sight of which the frozen onlookers slowly parted, made way for us through their midst. I was being led to my doom in full view of scores of people. ("Graves For The Living")

Mom!” she said, her tone the brightest and cheeriest she could muster. “How are you?” There was a beat of silence before her mother spoke. “Hello, sweetheart,” was all she said at first. But what Grace heard was, Hello, sweetheart. You’ve been avoiding your family for weeks. And if you think you’re hanging up this phone without committing to dinner with us and your conniving ex whom we adore, well then tilt your head up to see the pigs flying, and then glance below your feet so you can see hell freezing over.

I wanna be the reason you slightly tilt your phone from others when you read it...

And you say you want a new job, but something keeps you holding on to the old one, justifying why he’ll get better this year,” Mina added, holding her iced almond-milk latte in one hand as she swiped through a dating app with the other. “And he’s so clingy and expects you to be there for him twenty-four seven,” Ellen added. “And when you do finally get another offer, you get cold feet because you can’t even remember who you were without Mr. Wall Street in your life.” “You’ve got to get out,” Mina said, tilting her head to evaluate a digital suitor on her phone. “It’s time,” Ellen agreed. “Sarah agrees with us.” Rae felt the panicked sensation of a door that had closed before she’d managed to reach it, but she avoided interpreting their words as truth. She just went into defensive mode, disliking how the rest of the Scramblettes had apparently started a separate group chat to stage an intervention. “Things have been getting better,” Rae said. “I think I’ll be able to present my market size analysis to a client at a pitch meeting next week.” “You’re doing that thing,” Ellen said, “where the shitty boyfriend does one mediocre thing, but relative to everything else he’s done it’s amazing, and so you think this means he’s really changed.” The glare from Ellen’s engagement ring felt very bright, and Rae didn’t like the sight of it.

Madison had covered one side of the hall without success, and was just bending down to check the first locker on the other side, when a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks. “Looking for lunch money?” Jeremy asked. Madison’s face turned beet red. She slowly turned to look at Jeremy, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, watching her. “Of course not,” she said. “Lunch is over.” “Then what are you looking for?” he asked, strolling toward her. She folded her arms and stood her ground. “That’s none of your business.” “Actually, it is my business,” Jeremy replied. “That’s my locker.” “What?” Madison spun to look at the locker. There was no way she could have known. “Well, it’s not what you think. I-I’m not planning on stealing from you,” she stammered. “I’m just…” Her voice trailed off as she tried to think of a logical explanation for why she was standing alone in the hall with her hand on his locker. Jeremy leaned his shoulder against his locker and grinned. He looked like the cat who had eaten the canary. “You’re just what?” Madison gulped and looked up at the I’M STUCK ON MADISON sticker on Jeremy’s locker door. A lightbulb went on in her brain, and she tilted her chin in defiance. “I’m just removing this sticker from your locker.” She reached up and tore the decal off the locker. As she did, she spotted the phone number on the back and screamed, “I found it!” Jeremy jumped back two feet in alarm. “Could you shout a little louder?” he cracked. “I don’t think the hall monitor heard you.” “So what are you doing lurking out here?” Madison asked, cradling the sticker with Blue’s number in her hand, so Jeremy wouldn’t see it. Jeremy leaned in until his face was only inches from hers, and whispered, “That’s for me to know and you to find out.

May I offer another scenario?” “Shoot.” “Terese Collins murdered her ex-husband,” Berleand said. “She needed a way to dispose of the body—someone she could trust to help clean up the mess. She called you.” I frowned. “And when I answered, she said, ‘I just killed my ex-husband in Paris, please help me’? ” “Well, she might have just told you to fly here. She might have told you the purpose after you arrived.” I smiled. This had gone on long enough. “You know she didn’t tell me that.” “How would I know that?” “You were listening in,” I said. Berleand didn’t face me then. He just kept smoking the cigarette and looked out at the view. “When you stopped me at the airport,” I continued, “you put a bug on me somewhere. My shoes maybe. Probably my cell phone.” It was the only thing that made sense. They found the body, maybe checked Rick Collins’s cell phone or whatever, found out his ex-wife was in town, put a tap on her phone, saw that she called me, held me up at the airport long enough to put on a bug and start surveillance. That was why I had been so forthcoming with Berleand—he already knew all these answers. I’d been hoping to win his trust. “Your cell phone,” he answered. “We replaced the battery with a listening device that holds the same charge. It’s very new technology, quite cutting edge.” “So you know Terese thought her ex was missing.” He tilted his head back and forth. “We know that’s what she told you.” “Come on, Berleand. You heard her tone. She was genuinely distraught.” “She seemed to be,” he agreed.

Baby, I’ve been so worried about you.  You’re not answering your phone and nobody’s heard from you in days.  What in the hell is going on?” I kiss his neck and breathed deeply.  He smelled of the forest and Anton.  I closed my eyes hoping to memorize the scent.  He was so warm and inviting, I kissed his jaw, slowly making my way to his perfect lips. He tilted his head slightly and touched the side of my face.  His voice was soft, his words thick and slow. “What are you doing baby?” “Taking advantage of you while I can.  You’ll be leaving me again soon.” “Why do you think that?” “Because it’s always you that leaves.”   He leaned back and stared at me.  I thought I should say something more, but elected instead to hold my tongue for a bit.  Besides, what else was there to say?

How about a phone call on Wednesday night and you see if you can wrangle a night for dinner. That work for you?” “Hmm. That’s gonna work.” “Come a little closer. Press up against me here, right on this bench. Kiss me like a girlfriend, I want to see if I should go to the trouble of calling Wednesday night.” She scooted closer. He threaded his fingers into her soft hair, cradling the back of her head in his palm. He pulled her mouth against his and let his eyes lower as he moved over her mouth slowly, deliberately, deliciously. Their heads tilted for a better fit; their lips parted and they both moaned softly. They didn’t hurry. When the kiss broke, he smiled very sweetly. “Might not call Wednesday,” he said. “Might have to call Tuesday. And Thursday. Unless I’m crazy, you’re ready for that.” “That’s about all I’m ready for….” “Good,” he said with a grin. “I like the job of talking you into things.” “Just

He tugged on her hand, but instead of going to him, she looked at the timepiece above her breast. “It’s getting late.” “Are you coming over here or not?” “Not.” But she smiled to lessen the refusal. After a moment, he stood. “I was planning to cover the south side tomorrow. Sales have been kind of slow and I need to find us some new subscribers.” Unfolding herself from the couch, she rose as well. “Does SWT&T know who you are?” “Only the chairman. Everyone else thinks I’m a troubleman, including our boss.” She tilted her head. “Are you really going to try and sell phones or are you doing your, um, other work?” He ran the back of his knuckles against her cheek. “Both. I’m always doing both.” Twisting her face to the side, she gave his hand a peck. “You be careful, then.” He slid his hand around the nape of her neck, and gently pulled her toward him. Defenses melting, she let him reel her in as surely as if she were one of his fish. The kiss was slow, gentle, and devastating. “If I don’t see you tomorrow,” he whispered, “I’ll see you on Tuesday.

Tough cojones, brother. Listen, by any chance are you Michael Oliver, the running back on the team? You go by the nickname Olly?” I close my eyes and tilt my head back. Great. Just what I need now. For my dirty laundry to be aired out across town. “Who wants to know?” “Just a fan. I’m Samuel, by the way. I think we had bio together freshman year.” “Hey, man. How’s it going?” It takes every ounce of energy in my body to be friendly. “By the sound of it, better than you. Hey, we’re having a little shindig over here tonight. Wanna come over and toss back some beer?” Fuck it. “Yeah. Sure. Think you might want to help me figure out how to win back a girl who probably hates my guts by now?” A deep chuckle rumbles out of the phone. “I’m a plotting master. Get your ass over here, and we’ll figure it out.” 18 MAGGIE

What do you think you’re doing, Helen?” I whispered beside her ear. She lifted her book in front of her face. “I’m reading, Theodore. Be quiet. We’re in the library.” I dropped my phone on the arm of the chair and clamped my hands on her hips. “The thing is, Little Tiger, I have a girl on my lap, I’m going to think she likes being there and might get ideas.” “Well, your ideas would be wrong. I’m here to study. It’s not my fault you placed yourself under me.” “Helen…” I rumbled, “you’re on my dick, baby.” Her head tilted to the side, giving me a glimpse of the barest smirk ghosting her lips. “Oh, am I? What if your girlfriend sees? I’ve heard she’s a bitch, but is she violent? To be honest, I’m not in the mood to fight.” I brushed a lock of hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear, and she stiffened all over. I dragged my fingers down to her jaw, and she jerked her head to the side. “Don’t,” she whispered. “I won’t.” My hand fell back to her hip. She returned her attention to her play. I sighed. I was done for.

Um…” The marching band in my bloodstream was now doing double-time maneuvers. “Well, I walked into the throne room one day, and Venus was studying this hologram of you, and I asked—just completely casually, mind you—‘Who’s that?’ And she told me your…your fate, I guess. The thing about healing your heart. Then she just…tore into me. She forbade me to approach you. She said if I ever tried to woo you, she would curse me forever. It was totally unnecessary. And also embarrassing.” Reyna’s expression remained as smooth and hard as marble. “Woo? Is that even a thing anymore? Do people still woo?” “I—I don’t know. But I stayed away from you. You’ll notice I stayed away. Not that I would’ve done otherwise without the warning. I didn’t even know who you were.” She stepped over a fallen log and offered me a hand, which I declined. I didn’t like the way her greyhounds were grinning at me. “So, in other words,” she said, “what? You’re worried Venus will strike you dead because you’re invading my personal space? I really wouldn’t worry about that, Lester. You’re not a god anymore. You’re obviously not trying to woo me. We’re comrades on a quest.” She had to hit me where it hurt—right in the truth. “Yes,” I said. “But I was thinking….” Why was this so hard? I had spoken of love to women before. And men. And gods. And nymphs. And the occasional attractive statue before I realized it was a statue. Why, then, were the veins in my neck threatening to explode? “I thought if—if it would help,” I continued, “perhaps it was destiny that…Well, you see, I’m not a god anymore, as you said. And Venus was quite specific that I shouldn’t stick my godly face anywhere near you. But Venus…I mean, her plans are always twisting and turning. She may have been practicing reverse psychology, so to speak. If we were meant to…Um, I could help you.” Reyna stopped. Her dogs tilted their metal heads toward her, perhaps trying to gauge their master’s mood. Then they regarded me, their jeweled eyes cold and accusatory. “Lester.” Reyna sighed. “What in Tartarus are you saying? I’m not in the mood for riddles.” “That maybe I’m the answer,” I blurted. “To healing your heart. I could…you know, be your boyfriend. As Lester. If you wanted. You and me. You know, like…yeah.” I was absolutely certain that up on Mount Olympus, the other Olympians all had their phones out and were filming me to post on Euterpe-Tube.

The fragrance started off bright and happy, fresh-cut grass and sunshine, iced hibiscus tea, the best of a Sunday afternoon. Lavender and rose released their sweetness into the air so serenely you knew there was not a weed within ten yards of them. The scents filtered out through the store, and as Victoria and I watched, the customers began putting down their phones, looking about with greater interest, smiling at one another. "Well, you certainly made them friendly," Victoria said. I just smiled. The fragrance began to deepen. Vanilla, the clarion call of mothers in aprons and after-school cookies warm from the oven. The women's expressions softened. Your life can be like this, the fragrance said. Your children will love you. Then, slowly, lazily, in came the scent of jasmine. Victoria tilted her head. "Hello, troublemaker," she said. It floated out across the room, heavy and sensual, the essence of beautiful, younger women. Women who birthed children and wore bikinis within a month, or worse yet, never had children at all, their stomachs taut, their breasts ripe. Women who drew the wandering eyes of husbands. Then, even as the customers began shifting away from each other with polite, nervous smiles, there came another scent, lurking inside the jasmine, where it always waited- a touch of indole. A trail that led you downward, into the dirt. But not enough- the fragrance was still too sweet. It hovered in the store, off-kilter. "Hmm," Victoria said, her eyebrows pulling together. "Wait," I said. The want of balance was like an ache in the air. The fragrance reached out, searching, begging for completion. It didn't want sweet. It didn't want nice. And then, out of the skin, the sweat, the very heat of the women's thoughts, came the missing base note. Keen edged as a knife, it rose to meet the sweetness. Jealousy. As we watched, one of the women picked up a cashmere throw and clutched it to her chest. Another sat down on a leather couch, her arms spread out like a claim jumper. Mine. "Brilliant," Victoria said, stifling a laugh. "Absolutely brilliant.

It’s not a purse—it’s a satchel. And if this were entirely dignified, don’t you think all the guys would be doing it? It’s a core part of the strategy. Men don’t own dogs like this. They own dogs like that.” She pointed to my phone. “It’s adorable. Trust me. You’ll be a chick magnet.” I didn’t care about being a chick magnet, but I liked the idea of having an inside joke with her for some reason. “Okay. You’ve piqued my interest. I’ll test your theory.” “And if I’m right?” “Then I’ll tell you that you were right.” She twisted her lips to one side. “No. Not good enough. If I’m right, you pose in some website pictures with my dog satchels. I need a male model.” Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?“Somehow this whole deal feels like I’m the loser.” I chuckled. Whatever. I was a good sport. “How are you the loser? I’m giving you the opportunity to use my highly trained hunting dog to lure scores of women into your bed.” I smirked. “You know, without sounding like an asshole, I don’t really have a hard time getting women.” She tilted her head. “Yeah, I can see that. You have the whole sexy fireman thing going for you.” She waved a hand over my body. I took a drink of my soda and grinned at her. “So you think I’m sexy, huh?” She pivoted to face me full on. “There’s something you should know about me, Josh. I say what I think. I don’t have a coy bone in my body. Yes, you’re sexy. Enjoy the compliment because you won’t always like what I say to you, and I won’t care one way or the other if you do or don’t.

sexual partners, she was either lying, or she’d had it for over a year. But Oliver’s chart didn’t show any symptoms and he hadn’t been prescribed.  Jamie mulled it over in her head then acted on a hunch, pulling open the top right-hand drawer. Inside was a wholesale box of condoms. She stared at it for a second. At least they were using protection. She wondered how many Mary gave out a week. Maybe there had been a third person in their relationship. A scorned ex-boyfriend who didn’t like Oliver? He obviously didn’t know about the rash — or hadn’t noticed. Grace was keeping it from him. Had he found out, confronted Grace’s other boyfriend? Or maybe the other way around. Surprised by the guy? Taken? Tied up and threatened? She had a feeling that the person hadn’t meant to kill him. If you’re going to kill someone, you don’t take their shoes and then dump them in a river. He’d either fallen in accidentally, or he’d jumped. Either way, if there wasn’t an ex — or not ex boyfriend — he was going to be someone Jamie wanted to speak to.  She held Grace’s picture up, looking past the matted hair and sunken eyes. She was young, pretty. She’d have a lot of attention out there on the streets.  Jamie closed the drawer and looked at the file again, searching for a name. She wanted to speak to the doctor. The signature just looked like a wavy line. She’d ask Mary. The chair squeaked as she pushed back from the desk and stood up, keeping the files in hand. Her watch told her it was nearly nine-thirty. Her stomach told her it was time for breakfast. Back in the main room, some of the people had cleared out, venturing back into the city. Looking for some way to get by.  Roper was still talking to Mary, who appeared to be in the middle of a speech about how these people needed more help than anyone was prepared to give, and that Oliver wouldn’t been the last. Jamie stepped around her, piqued. ‘Why do you say that?’ ‘Oh,’ she said, seeing Jamie. ‘Because people don’t want to help them and they let them hurt themselves and each other without paying them any mind.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘Each other? Did someone have a problem with Oliver?’ ‘What?’ Mary looked sheepish all of a sudden, as if she’d dropped someone in something. ‘No, no — nothing like that. Not as far as I know, anyway,’ she added quickly. ‘Look, I just want you to find who did this — but for you to know that things are different with them. They don’t act the same — don’t believe in the same things, you know?’ She kept her voice low now. Jamie nodded. She’d worked the streets long enough to know what Mary meant. She’d seen more than she could have ever imagined. Seen people do crazy things. Things that people with something to lose would never think to do.  ‘Mrs Cartwright,’ she said after a second. ‘Grace Melver. She was friends with Oliver?’ ‘Grace?’ Mary’s eyes lit up a little and then tilted down in sadness. ‘What a sweet girl. She’ll be devastated. She’s been back every day to check whether Oliver has turned up. She’s been going out of her mind. Poor girl.’ ‘What was the nature of their relationship?’ Roper held his phone a little higher so the microphone could pick them up more easily. Mary thought for a second, aware of the recording. She chose her words carefully. ‘They were together, I suppose. As much as two people in their situation could be. They looked out for each other. Loved each other.’ ‘Did Grace have any other boyfriends?’ ‘No, no. She was sweet. She loved Oliver.’ ‘She was a heroin user, right?’ Mary looked like her face was about to droop and slip right off her head. ‘Horrible stuff. Though they