Tire Flipping Quotes

I’m so fucking tired of pretending.” “Pretending what?” It’s nothing but a breathy whisper as he prowls toward me, matching each of my steps backward. His strong hands cup my face, piercing gaze locked on mine as he looms above me. My heart slams in my chest as his thumb sweeps across my lower lip, and his eyes dip, watching as my lips part on a jagged inhale, before flipping back up to mine. “I’m so fucking tired of pretending I’m not in love with you.

Rowdy, hopped-up college kids pass us in an endless, noisy blur like they're being mass produced or squeezed out of a tube - guys skulking in their T-shirts and cargo shorts, girls in low-slung jeans and flip-flops, pimples and breasts and tattoos and lipstick and legs and bra straps, and cigarettes; a colorful, sexy melange. I feel old and tired and I just want to be them again, want to be young and stupid, filled with angst and attitude and unbridled lust. Can I have a do-over, please? I swear to God I'll make a real go of it this time.

At first we tried to keep up, but soon we were tired of boiling and pickling and deviling, and my mother started complaining that all these free eggs were costing her way too much.

As if I didn't have enough to worry about. My kingdom is threatened by war, extinction, or both, and the only way to solve it is to give up the only thing I've ever really wanted. Then Toraf pulls something like this. Betrays me and my sister. Galen cant imagine how things could get worse. So he's not expecting it when Emma giggles. He turns on her. "What could be funny?" She laughs so hard she has to lean into him for support. He stiffens against the urge to wrap his arms around her. Wiping tears from her eyes, she says, "He kissed me!" The confession makes her crack up all over again. "And you think that's funny?" "You don't understand, Galen," she says, the beginnings of hiccups robbing her of breath. "Obviously." "Don't you see? It worked!" "All I saw was Toraf, my sister's mate, my best friend, kissing my...my..." "Your what?" "Student." Obsession. "Your student. Wow." Emma shakes her head then hiccups. "Well, I know you're mad about what he did to Rayna, but he did it to make her jealous." Galen tries to let that sink in, but it stays on the surface like a bobber. "You're saying he kissed you to make Rayna jealous?" She nods, laugher bubbling up again. "And it worked! Did you see her face?" "You're saying he set Rayna up." Instead of me? Galen shakes his head. "Where would he get an idea like that?" "I told him to do it." Galen's fists ball against his will. "You told him to kiss you?" "No! Sort of. Not really though." "Emma-" "I told him to play hard to get. You know, act uninterested. He came up with kissing me all on his own. I'm so proud of him!" She thinks Toraf is a genius for kissing her. Great. "Did...did you like it?" "I just told you I did, Galen." "Not his plan. The kiss." The delight leaves her face like a receding tide. "That's none of your business, Highness." He runs a hand through his hair to keep from shaking her. And kissing her. "Triton's trident, Emma. Did you like it or not?" Taking several steps back, she throws her hands on her hips. "Do you remember Mr. Pinter, Galen? World history?" "What does that have to do with anything?" "Tomorrow is Monday. When I walk into Mr. Pinter's class, he won't ask me how I liked Toraf's kiss. In fact, he won't care what I did for the entire weekend. Because I'm his student. Just like I'm your student, remember?" Her hair whips to the side as she turns and walks away with that intoxicating saunter of hers. She picks up her towel and steps into her flip-flops before heading up the hill to the house. "Emma, wait." "I'm tired of waiting, Galen. Good night.

You’re doing the right thing,” she says. “Doesn’t feel like it.” I wipe my eyes. I am so tired of crying. She nods, reading back over her list and flipping to a new page in her steno pad. “Sometimes, that’s how you know,” she says without looking up. “That’s how you know.

You think your TV bill is only $79 per month? For every hour you watch TV, you could be building your dream company, going to the gym, sleeping, writing that book you’ve been talking about for years, reading that book you’ve been thinking about for years, planning that big event, creating something. Don’t just consume nothing on the couch. If you consume anything, I’d rather you consume your own sweet dreams while resting your tired brain for another big day tomorrow. Now do you see how much money you are losing by flipping channels for a lifetime?

It's a world gone mad! Pacifists paying for boot camp! Feminists learning to pole dance! Geeks flipping tractor tires! And the trends keep coming!

This is where we come," he said. Albie and I look at each other. “We?” “Me and, you know.” Albie’s eyes got wide. “I really don’t think I want to know about this.” I surprised myself. “I do,” I said. I guess I was tired of having to withhold the truth from Toby. Other than Ben, he and Albie we’re easily my best friends at Natick. Toby looked a little surprised, like he’d just assumed we wouldn’t want to hear the details. “You do?” “Yeah.” He looked around to make sure we were alone. We definitely were. No one came back here to my knowledge. Also it was cold. Like twenty degrees. Only three idiots would be in the woods in the winter, it seemed to me. “Robinson” he said. “Gorilla Butt,” I said, nodding. “I know.” “You know?” “Yup.” Toby crossed his arms an then deflated into a fake pout. “You’re stealing my scene, bitch. Scene stealer.” “Sorry,” I said. “So you and Gorilla Butt. Wow.” He flipped me off. “He hates that,” Toby said. “But, yeah. It’s hairy.” “Oh, look, almost anything else in the universe,” Albie said, heading back to campus and leaving us in the clearing. “He’s such a prude,” Toby said rolling his eyes.

A few years ago, Ed and I were exploring the dunes on Cumberland Island, one of the barrier islands between the Atlantic Ocean and the mainland of south Georgia. He was looking for the fossilized teeth of long-dead sharks. I was looking for sand spurs so that I did not step on one. This meant that neither of us was looking very far past our own feet, so the huge loggerhead turtle took us both by surprise. She was still alive but just barely, her shell hot to the touch from the noonday sun. We both knew what had happened. She had come ashore during the night to lay her eggs, and when she had finished, she had looked around for the brightest horizon to lead her back to the sea. Mistaking the distant lights on the mainland for the sky reflected on the ocean, she went the wrong way. Judging by her tracks, she had dragged herself through the sand until her flippers were buried and she could go no farther. We found her where she had given up, half cooked by the sun but still able to turn one eye up to look at us when we bent over her. I buried her in cool sand while Ed ran to the ranger station. An hour later she was on her back with tire chains around her front legs, being dragged behind a park service Jeep back toward the ocean. The dunes were so deep that her mouth filled with sand as she went. Her head bent so far underneath her that I feared her neck would break. Finally the Jeep stopped at the edge of the water. Ed and I helped the ranger unchain her and flip her back over. Then all three of us watched as she lay motionless in the surf. Every wave brought her life back to her, washing the sand from her eyes and making her shell shine again. When a particularly large one broke over her, she lifted her head and tried her back legs. The next wave made her light enough to find a foothold, and she pushed off, back into the water that was her home. Watching her swim slowly away after her nightmare ride through the dunes, I noted that it is sometimes hard to tell whether you are being killed or saved by the hands that turn your life upside down.

Getting tired already, minnow?” Toraf taunts as he wraps strong arms around Galen’s neck in a choke hold. Galen promptly flips him forward and onto his back. Toraf bounces once with the force. “You must have been drinking salt water,” Galen returns, “to have delusions like that.” Toraf kicks Galen’s legs out from under him, and the scuffle is taken to the floor. Just when I wonder how long this can really go on, the older Syrena steps into the dining room and confirms his identity with the authority in his voice. “That’s enough. Get up.” Toraf scrambles to his feet and steps away from Galen, who reluctantly complies. “Yes, Highness. Sorry, Highness,” Toraf says, breathless. There is not a small amount of shame on Toraf’s face. In fact, even Galen looks conscience stricken. “Apologies, King Antonis,” he says quickly. “I didn’t see you there.” King Antonis. Mom’s dad. My grandfather. Holy! Antonis lifts his chin, satisfied. “I didn’t think so.” Mom steps over the dish debris and embraces her dad. “Thank you for interrupting. It was getting a tad boring. It was obvious no one would win.” Mom is such a dude sometimes. Grom winks at Galen, who shrugs.

I heard Nik bellow, “Aimee. Get your ass back in here, now!” As the doors slid closed, I flipped him off. Just who did that man think he was? I would figure this out myself. I was sick and tired of these powerful, commanding men telling me what to do with my life. They could all go to hell. *****

She's probably just tired of seeing you miserable.Like we all are," I add. "I'm sure...I'm sure she's as crazy about you as ever." "Hmm." He watches me put away my own shoes and empty the contents of my pockets. "What about you?" he asks, after a minute. "What about me?" St. Clair examines his watch. "Sideburns. You'll be seeing him next month." He's reestablishing...what? The boundary line? That he's taken, and I'm spoken for? Except I'm not. Not really. But I can't bear to say this now that he's mentioned Ellie. "Yeah,I can't wait to see him again. He's a funny guy, you'd like him.I'm gonna see his band play at Christmas. Toph's a great guy, you'd really like him. Oh. I already said that,didn't I? But you would. He's really...funny." Shut up,Anna. Shut.Up. St. Clair unbuckles and rebuckles and unbuckles his watchband. "I'm beat," I say. And it's the truth. As always, our conversation has exhausted me. I crawl into bed and wonder what he'll do.Lie on my floor? Go back to his room? But he places his watch on my desk and climbs onto my bed. He slides up next to me. He's on top of the covers, and I'm underneath. We're still fully dressed,minus our shoes, and the whole situation is beyond awkward. He hops up.I'm sure he's about to leave,and I don't know whether to be relieved or disappointed,but...he flips off my light.My room is pitch-black. He shuffles back toward my bed and smacks into it. "Oof," he says. "Hey,there's a bed there." "Thanks for the warning." "No problem." "It's freezing in here.Do you have a fan on or something?" "It's the wind.My window won't shut all the way.I have a towel stuffed under it, but it doesn't really help." He pats his way around the bed and slides back in. "Ow," he says. "Yes?" "My belt.Would it be weird..." I'm thankful he can't see my blush. "Of course not." And I listen to the slap of leather as he pulls it out of his belt loops.He lays it gently on my hardwood floor. "Um," he says. "Would it be weird-" "Yes." "Oh,piss off.I'm not talking trousers. I only want under the blankets. That breeze is horrible." He slides underneath,and now we're lying side by side. In my narrow bed. Funny,but I never imagined my first sleepover with a guy being,well,a sleepover. "All we need now are Sixteen Candles and a game of Truth or Dare." He coughs. "Wh-what?" "The movie,pervert.I was just thinking it's been a while since I've had a sleepover." A pause. "Oh." "..." "..." "St. Clair?" "Yeah?" "Your elbow is murdering my back." "Bollocks.Sorry." He shifts,and then shifts again,and then again,until we're comfortable.One of his legs rests against mine.Despite the two layers of pants between us,I feel naked and vulnerable. He shifts again and now my entire leg, from calf to thigh, rests against his. I smell his hair. Mmm. NO! I swallow,and it's so loud.He coughs again. I'm trying not to squirm. After what feels like hours but is surely only minutes,his breath slows and his body relaxes.I finally begin to relax, too. I want to memorize his scent and the touch of his skin-one of his arms, now against mine-and the solidness os his body.No matter what happens,I'll remember this for the rest of my life. I study his profile.His lips,his nose, his eyelashes.He's so beautiful.

I want to wear flip-flops for the rest of my life.  They’re not just mere footwear.  They can act as makeshift fly swatters, they clap for you when your hands are tired.  And once I saw a lady take off her flop and swat her kid on the butt.  Yeah, that was probably going to be me one day.  ‘The beatings will continue until morale improves.

The exhaustion apparent in his slumped shoulders made her heart twist. He looked so tired she wanted to rub his back and stroke his hair, as a mother would for a child. This was natural compassion, she decided, and walked toward him to give him what comfort she could. He finally heard her and lifted his head from his arms. Locks of sandy hair fell over his forehead and he looked up at her with deep indigo eyes. Even in the dim light, she could see pain etched across his features. What horrors stalked his dreams? What could she do to help him sleep peacefully? For a long moment they gazed at one another and then Huiann rested her hand on his shoulder. At the same time, Alan leaned into her body. They came together like two halves of an eggshell carefully broken. He slid a hand around her waist and pulled her closer. His face pressed against her breast. His arms wrapped around her. She held him, cradling his head, rubbing his back. His body was so warm in her embrace. Her heart beat steadily and her stomach flipped in slow, lazy somersaults. The moment she’d sensed coming for so long was here. What would happen next? For a long time, they remained locked in perfect union, contented, safe, no longer alone. As she caressed his hair, soft as she’d imagined, he tilted his face to look up at her. His eyes glittered in the lamplight. He wanted more and Huiann realized she did too.

they were tired of that so they ripped open the package and sat down side by side on Ivy’s couch to look at The Royal Book of the Ballet. “I heard that sometimes their toes bleed when they’re dancing,” said Bean. “The blood leaks right through the satin part.” “That’s gross,” said Ivy, turning the pages. Suddenly she stopped. “Whoa, Nellie,” murmured Bean, staring. “Is she kicking his head off?” asked Ivy in a whisper. “That’s what it looks like,” said Bean. “What’s this one called, anyway?” Ivy flipped back a few pages. “Giselle,” she said, reading quickly. “It’s about a girl named Giselle who, um, dances with this duke guy, but he’s going to marry a princess, not Giselle, so she takes his sword and stabs herself.” Ivy and Bean found the picture of that.

When it passes us, the driver tips his cap our way, eying us as if he thinks we're up to no good-the kind of no good he might call the cops on. I wave to him and smile, wondering if I look as guilty as I feel. Better make this the quickest lesson in driving history. It's not like she needs to pass the state exam. If she can keep the car straight for ten seconds in a row, I've upheld my end of the deal. I turn off the ignition and look at her. "So, how are you and Toraf doing?" She cocks her head at me. "What does that have to do with driving?" Aside from delaying it? "Nothing," I say, shrugging. "Just wondering." She pulls down the visor and flips open the mirror. Using her index finger, she unsmudges the mascara Rachel put on her. "Not that it's your business, but we're fine. We were always fine." "He didn't seem to think so." She shoots me a look. "He can be oversensitive sometimes. I explained that to him." Oversensitive? No way. She's not getting off that easy. "He's a good kisser," I tell her, bracing myself. She turns in her seat, eyes narrowed to slits. "You might as well forget about that kiss, Emma. He's mine, and if you put your nasty Half-Breed lips on him again-" "Now who's being oversensitive?" I say, grinning. She does love him. "Switch places with me," she snarls. But I'm too happy for Toraf to return the animosity. Once she's in the driver's seat, her attitude changes. She bounces up and down like she's mattress shopping, getting so much air that she'd puncture the top if I hadn't put it down already. She reaches for the keys in the ignition. I grab her hand. "Nope. Buckle up first." It's almost cliché for her to roll her eyes now, but she does. When she's finished dramatizing the act of buckling her seat belt-complete with tugging on it to make sure it won't unclick-she turns to me in pouty expectation. I nod. She wrenches the key and the engine fires up. The distant look in her eyes makes me nervous. Or maybe it's the guilt swirling around in my stomach. Galen might not like this car, but it still feels like sacrilege to put the fate of a BMW in Rayna's novice hands. As she grips the gear stick so hard her knuckles turn white, I thank God this is an automatic. "D is for drive, right?" she says. "Yes. The right pedal is to go. The left pedal is to stop. You have to step on the left one to change into drive." "I know. I saw you do it." She mashes down on the brake, then throws us into drive. But we don't move. "Okay, now you'll want to step on the right pedal, which is the gas-" The tires start spinning-and so do we. Rayna stares at me wide-eyed and mouth ajar, which isn't a good thing since her hands are on the wheel. It occurs to me that she's screaming, but I can't hear her over my own screeching. The dust wall we've created whirls around us, blocking our view of the trees and the road and life as we knew it. "Take your foot off the right one!" I yell. We stop so hard my teeth feel rattled. "Are you trying to get us killed?" she howls, holding her hand to her cheek as if I've slapped her. Her eyes are wild and glassy; she just might cry. "Are you freaking kidding me? You're the one driving!

They got under each of my shoulders and pulled me up, Padma walking in front of me and holding her arms out for good measure. I walked on my own, but I knew that if they hadn’t been there, I might have fallen more than once. Side by side, we marched into the Ocean, all of us crying for help. What? I felt the swirling waves of Her worry as we floated just beneath the surface. Something’s wrong with Kahlen, Miaka said. In the water, they could let me go, and I floated there, the Ocean holding me like a child. I’m so tired. Look at her skin, Elizabeth said. She’s so pale. And she keeps sleeping. Like she needs it. She has a fever, too, Miaka added. I was acutely aware that my temperature was off; I could feel the water around me warming from my touch....She fretted. This has never happened before. I don’t know what to do. Maybe if she stays in You for a while, it would help, Elizabeth suggested. What, Miaka? the Ocean asked suddenly. Nothing. But she did look like she was hiding something. What were you thinking? Nothing, Miaka insisted. Flipping through ideas, it’s all nothing. I think Elizabeth is onto something. She swam up to me. We’ll come and check on you every hour until you feel like coming back to bed. I didn’t want to say how much it bothered me that she said “back to bed” instead of “back to the house.” It was like she knew I wasn’t going to be standing again. Okay. They fled, off to make arrangements for their broken sister. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s happening. How long have you been feeling like this? She sounded uneasy, as if She suspected something She didn’t want to say. I squinted, trying to remember. It’s been coming on so slowly, it’s hard to say. She snuggled me into Herself. Just rest. I’m here. And I was so tired, I did exactly that. It was so unreal, how loved I felt. Right there, balanced with Her rigidity, Her absolute need to maintain order, I heard Her thinking of what She might sacrifice so long as She could keep me. It was such an encompassing feeling, and that alone was enough to make me sleep.

Syn pulled his boxers on and quietly left the bedroom, walking angrily to the kitchen. He turned the corner and wanted to throw a shit-fit at the sight before him. Day was standing at his stove loading some type of egg dish onto a plate before turning and setting it in front of God. God folded down one side of his newspaper, peering at Syn from behind it. “Well good morning, sunshine,” Day said way too cheerily for five-fucking-a.m. “We brought breakfast.” Syn clenched his jaw, trying not to yell at his superior officers. “Have you two lost your fuckin’ minds? Come on. It’s, it’s ... early.” Syn turned his wrist, forgetting he didn’t have his watch on yet. “Damn, you guys are always at the office, or at a crime scene, or over fucking here at god-awful hours.” “Oh, it’s early?” Day said disbelievingly. God shrugged like he hadn’t realized either. “Seriously. When the fuck do you guys sleep?” “Never,” God said nonchalantly. “When do you fuck?” Syn snapped. “Always,” Day quipped. “Just did thirty minutes ago. Nice couch by the way, real comfy, sorry for the stain.” Syn tiredly flipped Day off. “Don’t be pissed,” Day sing-songed. “A dab of Shout will get that right out.” Syn rubbed angrily at his tired eyes, growling, “Day.” “He’s not in a joking mood, sweetheart,” God said from behind his paper. “You know we didn’t fuck on your couch so calm the hell down. Damn you’re moody in the morning. Unless ... We weren’t interrupting anything, were we? So, how’s porn boy?” God’s gruff voice filled the kitchen, making Syn cringe. “First of all. Don’t fucking call him that, ever, and damnit God. Lower your voice. Shit. He’s still asleep,” Syn berated his Lieutenant, who didn’t look the slightest bit fazed by Syn’s irritation. “You guys could let him sleep, he’s had a rough night, ya know.” Day leaned his chest against God’s large back, draping his arms over his shoulders. “Oh damn, what kind of friends are we? It was rough, huh?” Day looked apologetic. “Yes, it was, Day. He just–” “Try water-based lube next time,” Day interrupted, causing God to choke on his eggs. “Day, fuck.” Syn tried not to grin, but when he thought about it, it really was funny. “I knew I’d get you to smile. Have some breakfast Sarge, we gotta go question the crazy chicks. You know how much people feel like sharing when they’ve spent a night in jail.” “Damn. Alright, just let me–” “Wow. Something smells great.” Furi’s deep voice reached them from down the hall as he made his way to the kitchen. “You cook babe? Who knew? I’ll have the Gladiator portion.” Furi used his best Roman accent as he sauntered into the kitchen with his hands on hips and his head high. Syn turned just as Furi noticed God and Day. “Oh, fuck, shit, Jesus Christ!” Furi stumbled, his eyes darting wildly between all of them. “Damn, I’m so sorry.” Furi looked at Syn trying to gauge exactly how much he’d fucked up just now. Syn smiled at him and Furi immediately lost the horrified expression. Syn held his hand out and mouthed to him 'it's okay.

Maybe you can imagine this in your own life. We no longer look at the sun but at our phones to see what kind of time has passed. We don't look out of our cells but at our cell, flipping to a social media stream and scrolling through what our friends are doing. While we scroll, we develop a resentment that our lives are less fun and fulfilling than the lives of our friends. The here and now, the people who are around and present, pale in front of the manicured and curated versions of another person's life. We begin to wonder, like Evagrius, if we have lost the love of our friends, and we begin to believe that there is "none to comfort" us. So we fill our evenings with overeating, because it feels comforting, or binge-watching our favorite show, because we are so tired that we just need to "relax." We split our attention between the screen of the television and the screen of our phones. Indeed, one of the most effective ways to avoid the gnawing questions of meaning is by staying busy enough to avoid them. A constant flow of information and distraction turns the mind and the heart away from the abyss of asking why. Why do we worry about tomorrow? Why do we toil and reap? What is the treasure of great price that all our lives are working toward? When we do pause between activities, we try to fill the void. We forget that we are more than our work or the things that we produce. Our busyness represents a profound loss of freedom, and one that occurs through a gradual winnowing away of what it means to be human. We replace that it means to be a person with a shallowness of activity

office into a sauna. She dropped her purse and keys on the credenza right inside the door and flipped the light switch. Nothing happened. The electricity had already gone out. The only light in the house came from the glowing embers of scrub oak and mesquite logs in the fireplace. She held her hands out to warm them, and the rest of the rush from the drive down the slick, winding roads bottomed out, leaving her tired and sleepy. She rubbed her eyes and vowed she would not cry. Didn’t Grand remember that the day she came home from the gallery showings was special? Sage had never cut down a Christmas tree all by herself. She and Grand always went out into the canyon and hauled a nice big cedar back to the house the day after the showing. Then they carried boxes of ornaments and lights from the bunkhouse and decorated the tree, popped the tops on a couple of beers, and sat in the rocking chairs and watched the lights flicker on and off. She went to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, but it was pitch-black inside. She fumbled around and there wasn’t even a beer in there. She finally located a gallon jar of milk and carried it to the cabinet, poured a glass full, and downed it without coming up for air. It took some fancy maneuvering to get the jar back inside the refrigerator, but she managed and flipped the light switch as she was leaving. “Dammit! Bloody dammit!” she said a second time using the British accent from the man who’d paid top dollar for one of her paintings. One good thing about the blizzard was if that crazy cowboy who thought he was buying the Rockin’ C could see this weather, he’d change his mind in a hurry. As soon as she and Grand got done talking, she’d personally send him an email telling him that the deal had fallen through. But he’d have to wait until they got electricity back to even get that much. Sage had lived in the house all of her twenty-six years and

My phone rang at midnight, just as I was clearing my bed of the scissors and magazines and glue. It was Marlboro Man, who’d just returned to his home after processing 250 head of cattle in the dark of night. He just wanted to say good night. I would forever love that about him. “What’ve you been doing tonight?” he asked. His voice was scratchy. He sounded spent. “Oh, I just finished up my homework assignment,” I answered, rubbing my eyes and glancing at the collage on my bed. “Oh…good job,” he said. “I’ve got to go get some sleep so I can get over there and get after it in the morning…” His voice drifted off. Poor Marlboro Man--I felt so sorry for him. He had cows on one side, Father Johnson on the other, a wedding in less than a week, and a three-week vacation in another continent. The last thing he needed to do was flip through old issues of Seventeen magazine for pictures of lip gloss and Sun-In. The last thing he needed to deal with was Elmer’s glue. My mind raced, and my heart spoke up. “Hey, listen…,” I said, suddenly thinking of a brilliant idea. “I have an idea. Just sleep in tomorrow morning--you’re so tired…” “Nah, that’s okay,” he said. “I need to do the--” “I’ll do your collage for you!” I interrupted. It seemed like the perfect solution. Marlboro Man chuckled. “Ha--no way. I do my own homework around here.” “No, seriously!” I insisted. “I’ll do it--I have all the stuff here and I’m totally in the zone right now. I can whip it out in less than an hour, then we can both sleep till at least eight.” As if he’d ever slept till eight in his life. “Nah…I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll see you in the morning…” “But…but…,” I tried again. “Then I can sleep till at least eight.” “Good night…” Marlboro Man trailed off, probably asleep with his ear to the receiver. I made the command decision to ignore his protest and spent the next hour making his collage. I poured my whole heart and soul into it, delving deep and pulling out all the stops, marveling as I worked at how well I actually knew myself, and occasionally cracking up at the fact that I was doing Marlboro Man’s premarital homework for him--homework that was mandatory if we were to be married by this Episcopal priest. But on the outside chance Marlboro Man’s tired body was to accidentally oversleep, at least he wouldn’t have to walk in the door of Father Johnson’s study empty-handed.

Perhaps I won’t tire of her,” Gray protested, just to be contrary. Because, apparently, that was how brothers behaved. “Perhaps a dolphin will fly out of your arse. And here’s an argument even you can’t refuse. Grayson Shipping doesn’t need a reputation for delivering damaged goods. You want me to hand George Waltham an impregnated governess?” “I wouldn’t get her with child. Give me that much credit, at least.” “I give you credit for nothing. Let’s try this one last time, shall we? You made me this ship’s captain. If I’m the captain, what I say goes. And I say you don’t touch her. If you can’t abide by my orders, take command of the ship yourself and let me go home.” “Go home and do what? Squander your fortune and talent on dirt farming?” “Go home and take care of my own family. Go home and do what I damn well please, for once.” Cursing, Gray leaned against the wall. He knew Joss would make good on that threat, too. It hadn’t been easy, coaxing his brother out of mourning. Gray had resorted to outright bullying just to convince him to take command of the Aphrodite, threatening to cut off his income unless he reported to London as agreed. But he needed Joss, if this shipping concern was to stay afloat. He’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much to see it fail. And if Joss didn’t become a willing partner, it all would have been in vain. “Stay away from the girl, Gray.” Gray sighed. “We’re on the same ship. I can’t help but be near her. I’ll not promise to refrain from touching her, because the girl seems to lose her footing whenever I’m around. But I give you my word I’ll not kiss her again. Satisfied?” Joss shook his head. “Give me your word you won’t bed her.” “What a legend you’re making me! Insinuating I could bed her without even kissing her first.” Gray worried the edge of his thumbnail as he considered. “That might prove an amusing challenge, now that you suggest it.” Joss shot him an incredulous look. “With some other lady, on some other ship.” Gray raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “I’ll not bed her. You have my word. And don’t think that’s not a great sacrifice, because it is. I’d have her in two, three days at the most, I tell you.” “Once again-not amusing.” “For God’s sake, Joss, it’s a joke. What do you want, an apology? I’m sorry for kissing Miss Turner’s hand, all right?” Joss shook his head and flipped open the logbook. “No, you’re not.” “Yes, I am.” The odd thing of it was, Gray was telling the truth. He knew he was being an ass, but the joking was easier than honesty. For all his teasing, he hadn’t kissed her hand with the intent to seduce, or to judge if she tasted as sweet as he’d dreamed. He’d kissed her fingers for one reason only. Because they were trembling, and he’d wanted them to stop. It was wholly unlike him, that kiss. It was not a gesture he thought it wise to repeat. That girl did something strange to him.

I think I liked you better when you didn’t speak,” Pete says. Then he grins. I flip him the bird, and he flies at me, jumping on my back. He bounces up and down and leans over my shoulder so I can see his lips. “My feet are cold,” he says, batting his golden lashes at me. “You should carry me the rest of the way.” He’s latched onto me like a koala. And he’s fucking heavy. It’s like carrying a load of bricks. But I hitch him up higher and start walking. Sam turns his back to Kit and bends down. “You look tired, Kit,” he says. “Want a ride?” He waggles his eyebrows at her. She laughs and jumps onto his back. “I’m not sure I got the good end of this deal,” I croak as we all walk along together.

You're doing the right thing,' she says. 'Doesn't feel like it.' I wipe my eyes. I am so tired of crying. She nods, reading back over her list and flipping to a new page in her steno pad. 'Sometimes, that's how you know,' she says without looking up. 'That's how you know.

Then it came to him. This was not the diversion, the battle of Gibeah was the diversion. The real goal was to capture Mikael himself, the prince of Israel. Well, he thought, they picked the wrong archangel to mess with. I have a chosen nation to protect. He pulled out his horn to call for help, but Ba’alzebul’s mace smashed it out of his hands. Dagon assaulted him with a barrage of sword slashes and strikes. Mikael kept him at bay, but almost got stung by Asherah’s javelin from the other side. He dodged and kept moving. His Karabu training was his only hope. It was the heavenly battle technique of Yahweh’s archangels developed to protect the Garden of Eden in primordial days. They had taught the human giant killers Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech, and Caleb the Way of Karabu, but now he would need to call upon his training to survive this ordeal. He flipped, spun, and danced around the four attacking gods and their weapons. It frustrated the malevolent beings, which was to Mikael’s advantage. But archangels were still created beings. He began to grow tired. They were wearing him down. Dagon’s sword grazed Mikael’s arm, cutting through his tunic. He was not going to be able to keep it up. He would have to do something drastic. Ba’alzebul moved in on Mikael. The biggest, meanest, mightiest of the gods had been waiting for his opportune moment when Mikael was just weary enough, just worn enough, to be incapable of expecting the unexpected. Ba’alzebul took the lead and pounded Mikael’s sword with his mace and backed him up against the ledge. Mikael looked down to the chasm floor. Saul and his forces made their way through the chasm below after slaughtering the priests of Molech. It wasn’t a fair fight. And neither was this fight. But Saul was safe. He had made it through and went north toward Gibeah. But the gods were not here for Saul. They were here for Mikael. Ba’alzebul suddenly threw down his mace and rushed Mikael like a bull goring its prey. Mikael didn’t register why, until Ba’alzebul hit him. The two of them launched off into space, plummeting toward the chasm floor two hundred feet below. Angels and gods could not die. But they were not mere spirits. They were enfleshed spirits. While it was unique flesh that would heal miraculously, it was still flesh that could be hurt — as Ba’alzebul knew all too well from his own painful experience in the molten earth. They hit the ground with a powerful thud and sank several feet into the dirt. Every bone in Mikael’s body was broken in the fall. He was paralyzed in excruciating pain. Ba’alzebul had been on top of Mikael, so while he too would be somewhat incapacitated, it would not be as bad for him, having used Mikael’s body as a cushion in the fall. As Mikael slipped into a state of delirious pain, he knew that their goal had been to capture him this way. To ambush him and therefore make both Saul and David more vulnerable to human attack. But what did they plan for Mikael? He could not begin to imagine.

Teaching in the flipped-mastery model is tiring, and our minds have to constantly switch between one topic and the next, and from one activity to another.

In bed, I like to start off on top until I get tired. Then I have her get on top to regain my energy before I flip her around and bang her doggy style to finish off. Don’t ask permission to change positions—just do it.

Frankie spun around, and couldn’t believe his tired eyes. Standing there – like a cowboy in the old Western movies Frankie’s dad often fell asleep in front of – was none other than Drew Bird. The Guard With The Scar had moved next to the Close-But-Not-Close-Enough-Emperor, and Frankie saw him translate Drew’s question. The toffee-toothed figure on the stage grinned as he replied. ‘He wants to know what game you suggest,’ said Ping, her voice weak. Instantly, Drew Bird produced the old dirty bottle from behind his back; the exact one that had been tossed into the South China Sea on behalf of Alfie Fish, found by Oscar Bugg on a war-torn Japanese beach in 1945, and then brought to Frankie Fish in Australia by the mystery-hunting Texan twins – and then half-filled with river water just days earlier. If Drew was feeling nervous, he certainly didn’t show it. Arms folded, head tilted to one side, Drew asked his next question, which made Frankie gasp in shock. ‘Do you know anything about bottle-flipping, Close-But-Not-Quite-Emperor dude?

People came and went from Connor's life like the pebbles one finds on the shore: turned continuously by the tide, or tossed firmly back into the ocean by the man himself. When he was younger, Connor had filled his pockets with all kinds of stones, big ones, grey ones, ones with tiny crystals and stripes. His shore had been bright, and vibrant, and he rushed to meet the tide every morning. Now, Connor’s arms were tired, his head heavy from the drugs, and his pockets were full of other things besides rocks. When Jack had rolled along, a stranger to those lonely, forgotten sands, everything had flipped on its axis. Suddenly, he was the pebble, spat out in white foam, a modest, lump of rock that any jaded person might have kicked along. Jack had been different. He had reached down, amongst the water’s debris and sticky sand, and plucked Connor from that shore. He had weighed Connor in his palm, turned him this way and that, and curved his fingers into his grooves and bumps. Whatever Jack saw in him that day, on that metaphorical spit of sand, Connor must have met his approval.

You fill out a lot of forms. Then you fill out some different forms. Then you hire a new assistant for this case only because the forms have to be filed in quintuplicate and filed with the office of each Prime, separately, and one simply does not have enough hours in the day. Then you go home, really tired, to your family having eaten dinner at your desk again. And you fall straight into bed without enough energy to do more than kiss the children and spouses goodnight. And the next morning you get up and fill out more forms, and you visit the clarks to see if anyone has read your requests, and they say no. And you do this once a day for a week or so. And if you’ve filled out all the paperwork perfectly, then you flip a coin to determine whether or not they unseal the records for you.

DANIELLE AND GRACIE were in Yellowstone and it was spooky. The roads were fine—no snow—but it was oppressively dark and it seemed like someone had flipped a switch and turned out all the lights. The sky was clear and it had stopped raining but the only illumination came from a thin sliver of moon and the gauzy, ghostly wash of a million stars that seemed close, as if tamped down by an unseen hand from above. The road was banked with walls of thick black pines that occasionally opened up to reveal grassy meadows. Although the tires hummed on the pavement, Gracie got a sense of immense quiet all around them. They’d encountered no oncoming cars since they’d entered the park out of Silver Gate, a tiny and sleepy town where the only human activity existed around a couple of bars.

The tires bore down, kicking up dust like an Arabian stampede. Elizabeth flipped off the car stereo. Out of the corner of my eye, I could tell that she was studying my profile. I wondered what she saw, and my heart started fluttering.

Okay, then, how does Zev not having sex with me make sense? You just said you’ve been sleeping with Lori since high school. You went to nursing school out of state, so clearly that didn’t stop you.” “That’s different, Jonah. My relationship with Lori isn’t like your relationship with Zev.” Jonah wasn’t surprised, he was just tired. Of course Toby would see the relationships as different. Two men couldn’t possibly feel about each other the way a man feels about a woman. Apparently having a gay uncle couldn’t change that type of thinking. “Right. Because we’re gay. Our relationship can’t be as meaningful as yours,” he responded sarcastically. “No,” Toby replied, looking straight into Jonah’s eyes with a somber expression. “What you have with Zev is much deeper.” Jonah’s mouth dropped open, and he stared at Toby. As long as Jonah had known the other man, he’d had a thing for Lori, and, as far as Jonah knew, they were very happy together. “Last night when we came to your place, Zev flipped out. Did you know that?” Toby said. Jonah shook his head. He’d been sitting in his bedroom and hadn’t heard a thing. “Well, he did. He lost it and ran outside. I followed him and caught up to him in the alley. He’d punched a hole in the side of your apartment building and he was kneeling on the ground, vomiting and crying.” Jonah’s heart broke. So that was how Zev had acquired those injured knuckles. He didn’t want to hear any more. “I didn’t know what the hell was wrong,” Toby continued. “I couldn’t get him to come inside and I didn’t want to leave him out there alone. Once his stomach was empty, he just kept dry heaving and shaking. Eventually Lori came out and told me what’d been going on before we got there.” Toby glared at Jonah. “I wanted to go upstairs and kick your ass myself when I heard there’d been another man in your bedroom. You wanna know what stopped me?” Jonah couldn’t bring himself to respond. He was still thinking about Zev crying on the street. The man was always so strong, so steady and confident. He’d never seen Zev cry, and the knowledge that he’d caused that level of pain made Jonah feel sick. “I knew that if I so much as looked at you crosswise, Zev would’ve crippled me. No matter what you’d done to him.

down with Bart for a few hours and sleep as best I could. Chapter 12 I was as tired as I could ever remember being as I pulled the station wagon up the narrow driveway and came to a stop twenty-five feet from my front door. I liked my simple house with two bedrooms and an attic a hobbit couldn’t fit in. My front porch light was on a timer and illuminated the pathway, but the inside was pitch-black. That wasn’t good. I always left one light on in my kitchen. Normally, I could see it through the front window, and it cast a little light across the whole house. I didn’t want Bart walking into a wall in the dark. Someone had turned it off. The only defense I had was my Navy knife, which I dug out of my front pocket and flipped open. I use it as a tool, but its original purpose was as a weapon. The door was still locked, and I wondered if

Internal noise can include something as simple as being tired or having an upset stomach or becoming drunk. Any change in your body is undoubtedly going to impede the way you communicate, think, and feel. But, in this regard, it is best to deal with the most common and intense internal noises: stress and anger. Being under pressure is a universal feeling among humans. However, it does change the way we communicate and, for most of the time, it is for the worst. On the flip side, no good has ever come out of suppressing your anger and frustrations. Instead, you should learn

Dunnean precognition, as an orientation toward meaningful experiences and encounters ahead, is both more powerful as an explanation and more human. If the material world (including myths and symbols materially encoded in texts) comes to seem acquainted with our thoughts, it is neither because we are simply deluded about the probabilities of coincidence (as psychologists never tire of insisting) nor because we live suspended in an amnion of cosmic meaning that imprints its ageless archetypal patterns on our lives. Rather, it is because our brain is somehow predigesting, pre-metabolizing our future engagement with that world, via some natural and probably universal mechanism we have yet to fully understand. Synchronicity is simply what it looks like when people orient toward future meaningful encounters with no inkling that this is what they are doing. It is no accident that both Freud and Jung were fascinated with ancient artifacts—Freud displayed scarabs and other artifacts in his Vienna office, for example—and both liked to use archaeological metaphors of unearthing and discovery to describe their past-oriented hermeneutic enterprise. Ruins and artifacts seem like they belong to domain of history and memory—hence these two, highly history-conscious thinkers both embraced a picture of health that reconnected us to what is dead and buried. Curative moments in the clinic, for both men, meant awakening to influences belonging to our personal or collective past. I suggest we should flip those artifacts and ruins, see them instead as things awaiting discovery, latent in the landscape of our future. The most baffling “contents” of the personal unconscious may be things we will consciously think and feel in our future, and the “contents” of the collective unconscious may simply be the world of culture, ideas latent in our world, including books we ourselves will read as well as those that our doctors (as well as teachers and gurus) will excitingly explain to us. Those hermeneutic moments in analysts’ consulting rooms, where unconscious contents were brought to light, may have actually been the cause of the dreams and symptoms that preceded them. How many more cases like Maggy’s—or Freud’s “Herr P.”—are hiding unrecognized in the psychoanalytic literature, simply because this causally perverse possibility never occurred to anyone? In other words, were Maggy and Mr. Foresight especially precognitive patients, or were they just unusually bad at hiding their precognition in a therapeutic context that resolutely oriented their doctors toward the past in their search for meaning? Could it even be that the clinical setting effectively turns a patient into a medium or fortune teller—one who is compelled, by a medical reframing of his or her precognition as pathology, to pay the “client” (the doctor), rather than the reverse?73 It would be hard to answer these questions, given how inextricably entangled precognition is with hindsight. Discussion in a therapist’s office invariably deals with past events, since those are the only ones we consciously know about. Thus dreams about the next day’s epiphanies might still seem to be about past events that were dredged up and discussed during a rewarding session.

[...] the chimps had many empty hours to fill. Time can seem endless and often cruel for caged animals. Nim and Sally did have some diversions in their enclosure: a small television set, rarely watched; a tire swing; a basketball set; and a variety of allegedly indestructible toys. But the chimps mainly passed the time interacting with each other—grooming, cuddling, playing, chasing. When occasional squabbles erupted, their high-pitched screeches could be heard from a distance. Minutes later the couple would make up and hug. Nim was frequently seen signing “sorry” to Sally, who always forgave her close friend. On his own, Nim spent hours flipping through the pages of old magazines, seeming particularly diverted by images of people. The magazines, which Nim tore to shreds, were swept away at the end of each day and replaced by new ones in the morning. But he did manage to keep two children's books intact—no small accomplishment. His prize possessions, they were carefully tucked away in the loft area of his cage. (WER would have appreciated Nim's affection for books.) During the day, Nim brought the books down from the loft and pored over them intently, as if studying for an exam. One was a Sesame Street book with an illustrated section on how to learn ASL. The other was in essence his personal photo album from his New York years, a battered copy of The Story of Nim: The Chimp Who Learned Language, published in 1980. In it, dozens of black-and-white photographs of Nim— with Terrace, LaFarge, Petitto, Butler, and a handful of others—tell the story of his childhood (or an idealized version of it) from his infancy to his return to Oklahoma. Nim appears dressed in little-boy clothes, doing household chores, and learning his first signs. The book ends with a photo of Nim and Mac playing together, cage-free, in Oklahoma. The accompanying text explains that Nim is a chimpanzee, not a human, which was why he had been sent back to IPS.

I was watching myself fall back onto the classic sales approach, with its tired old script: First become likable and build rapport, then explain “features and benefits,” next do a trial close, and then fight like an alley cat to overcome all the objections the buyer has come up with.

It’s been two hours,” I state, rubbing my face. “She might be fevering again. Fucking teeth.” I grab the cover, flipping it off me and tossing it onto Eva’s side of the bed. “I don’t think I’ve hated something so much in my whole life.” I turn to look at Eva. “I’ll get a bottle. She didn’t really eat much at dinner, so she might be hungry.” She gets off the bed, turning to look at me. Her eyes so huge on her faced. “What’s that?” I look where she is pointing down at my shorts that clearly, without a doubt, shows her my dick. “That would be my dick,” I inform her, too tired to even care at this point.

Eddie Grace's buick Got four bullet holes in the side Charley Delisle is sittin' at the top Of an avocado tree Mrs Storm will stab you with a steak knife If you step on her lawn I got a half a pack of lucky strikes man So come along with me Let's fill our pockets With macadamia nuts And go over to Bobby Goodmanson's And jump off the roof Hilda plays strip poker When her mama's across the street Joey Navinsky says she put Her tongue in his mouth Dicky Faulkner's got a switchblade And some gooseneck risers That eucalyptus is a hunchback There's a wind down from the south So let me tie you up with kite string I'll show you the scabs on my knee Watch out for the broken glass Put your shoes and socks on And come along with me Let's follow that fire truck I think your house is burning down Then go down to the hobo jungle And kill some rattlesnakes with a trowel And we'll break all the windows In the old Anderson place We'll steal a bunch of boysenberrys And smear 'em on your face I'll get a dollar from my mama's purse Buy that skull and crossbones ring And you can wear it round your neck On an old piece of string Then we'll spit on Ronnie Arnold And flip him the bird Slash the tires on the school bus Now don't say a word I'll take a rusty nail Scratch your initials in my arm I'll show you how to sneak up on the roof Of the drugstore I'll take the spokes from your wheelchair And a magpie's wings And I'll tie 'em to your shoulders And your feet I'll steal a hacksaw from my dad Cut the braces off your legs And we'll bury them tonight Out in the cornfield Just put a church key in your pocket We'll hop that freight train in the hall We'll slide all the way down the drain To New Orleans in the fall

Man I'm so cold - it's 98 degrees Think I saw some human heads growin' on the trees Get a pair of pliers - and pull out all my teeth Never gonna need 'em if I'm never gonna eat I'd really be excited if I thought that this would pass Didn't have a wallet man I wouldn't have an ass My girlfriend's on the floor - she's gurglin' from the mouth That must be why I got these maggots crawlin' on the house Not much of a sleeper I am the tweaker Now I'm pukin' up my balls they're fuzzy little stones at least I'm not a hippie faggot smoking little bones when the bag runs empty - satan helps me cop Drinkin' up the draino to get back on top If I don't get some fuel I think I'm gonna flip I just ate a scorpion that stung me on the lip Sometimes I get so tired - never been a sleeper Life is just a side-effect cause I am the tweaker I just ate my beeper I am the tweaker I'm chewing on my sneaker I am the tweaker Born in 1984 I think I'm still alive These spots on my face and neck look like I'm 65 Snot bubbles in nose every time I start to cough My shriveled dick fell on the floor while I was jerkin' off My skin will start to burn if I turn on the lights My dealer wants his money but I can't fuckin' fight No sense in taking out the garbage leave it one the bed Call and leave a message 'cuz tomorrow I'll be dead Here comes the fuckin' reaper I am the tweaker Here comes the fuckin' reaper I am the tweaker

-Humph! Said Ami as she then quickly pulled ahead of me, having grown tired of my silent treatment. However, as she slipped by, I couldn’t resist quickly reaching over and flipping-up the back of her skirt, just enough to see that she had a panda on the back of her panties, my fingers never touching her ass, yet I could feel the warmth underneath. -Nice bear behind you got there! So I said She froze in mid step, and looked as if she was going to turn around, but instead she shuttered as if a tingling electric shock had gone all through her body. I then noticed that the back of her neck to the roots of her hair had turned a lobster red! Though whether that was because of embarrassment or anger or both I’m not sure. In any case, Ami’s hands became tight fists, and then with a growl like a tigress she quickly stomped off. I have actually heard a growl like that since that time. It’s the sound of a female Nepali snow leopard, in heat, just before it pounces on a potential mate.

Appreciate the comfortable (responsibly). Producing in the evening can be an experience like no other. With the comfortable, ongoing hum of the engine and the nights your atmosphere, generating can be almost like traveling through place. Producing in the evening seems unusual, fun, and even exciting — for some people, it’s one of life’s simplest yet most excessive entertainment. It’s definitely outstanding have fun with a evening produce, but don’t neglect to focus on what’s most important of all — your security and the security of other drivers. Always keep in ideas that getting sent straight while generating can be dangerous (especially at night), so keep your interest on the road. If you’re confident in your secured generating workouts, you’ll be able to successfully relax, notice in, and revel in your ride! Put your returning viewpoint reflection in its “flipped down” or “night” strategy to reduce returning front aspect part aspect lighting glare. Check all your car lighting constantly, especially if upcoming winter year time mean that you will be doing more generating after dark. To make the process simpler, you can take changes with a friend working the lighting and watching to see that they all come on, or you can notice your own reflection in the ms ms ms ms windows of a glass-fronted developing. You have purchased some car parts and accessories. Block out interruptions while generating, but don’t focus definitely on the road. Doing so may put you in a situation of hypnosis and you may even mentally “blank” for a few a few several weeks. Keep your viewpoint moving around the car and landscapes. Some car gadgets should be set progressively. Always use a car car car car seatbelt and encourage your guests to do the same.Do not produce drunk. Never produce without a legal drivers’ certification approved in your name. Don’t believe the town story that sunglasses with yellow-colored or bright orange sketchy connections help you see better in the evening. Wearing them in the evening may make aspects seem less heavy. Always carry around your drivers’ certification to prevent police from getting suspicious of a situation that isn’t there. Do not produce when you are tired. In some countries, generating while feeling sleepy issues as impacted generating. Regardless of the law, it’s dangerous.

BROWN RICE TORTILLAS Phase 2 Elimination This is one of the most popular recipes from our blog, NourishingMeals.com. Use these tortillas to make Black Bean, Yam, and Avocado Tacos (here) or Pomegranate Chicken Tacos (here). You can also serve them alongside your favorite soup or stew for dipping. They are soft and pliable when warm, but straight out of the fridge, like most gluten-free tortillas, they will crack. All you need to do to make them pliable again is to place one on a wire rack over a pot of simmering water and steam for 30 seconds on each side. I use an 8-inch cast-iron tortilla press to get them super thin, and then cook them in a cast-iron pan. 1¼ cups brown rice flour or sprouted brown rice flour ¾ cup arrowroot powder or tapioca flour ½ teaspoon sea salt 1 cup boiling water virgin coconut oil for cooking In a small mixing bowl, whisk together the brown rice flour, arrowroot, and salt. Add the boiling water and quickly mix with a fork. Knead the dough a few times to form a ball. It should have the texture of Play-Doh. If it is too wet and sticky, add more flour. If it is too dry, add a little more boiling water. Heat a 10-inch cast-iron skillet over medium heat. Divide the dough into six to eight equal-size balls. Place a piece of parchment paper on the bottom of a tortilla press, then place one of the balls in the center and cover with a second sheet of parchment. Press to form a thin, round tortilla. Add about 1 teaspoon coconut oil to the hot skillet. Gently remove the parchment paper and place the tortilla in the hot skillet. Cook for 2 minutes on each side. Repeat with the remaining dough, adding more coconut oil to the skillet each time. Place the cooked tortillas on a plate with another plate flipped over on top of it to keep them warm and soft. Let them sit for about 20 minutes inside the plates; this way, they will be nice and pliable for serving. Yield: 6 to 8 tortillas

He smiled – a real smile. Damn. It was easier to deal with him when he was being thoroughly vile. "Look, I’m sorry for being so rude earlier today. Your presence came as something of a shock and I reacted badly." "Oh." Geared for battle, his apology took me utterly by surprise. I gaped. "Aunt Arabella spoke very highly of you," he added, heaping coals of fire on my head. "She was impressed by your work on the Purple Gentian." "Why all this sudden amiability?" I asked suspiciously, crossing my arms across my chest. "Are you always this blunt?" "I’m too tired to be tactful," I said honestly. "Fair enough." Stretching, Colin detached himself from the wall. "Can I make you some hot chocolate as a token of peace? I was just about to have some myself," he added. Suiting action to words, he loped over to the counter beside the sink and checked the level of water in a battered brown plastic electric kettle. Satisfied, he plugged it into the wall, flipping the red switch on the side. I followed him over to the counter, the linen folds of the nightgown trailing after me across the linoleum. "As long as you promise not to slip any arsenic in it." Colin rooted around in a cupboard above the sink for the cocoa tin and held it out to me to sniff. "See? Arsenic free." I leant back against the counter, my elbows behind me on the marble work surface. "I don’t think arsenic is supposed to have a smell, is it?" "Damn, foiled again." Colin spooned Cadbury’s instant hot chocolate into two mugs, one decorated with large purple flowers, and the other with a quotation that I thought might be Jane Austen, but the author’s name was hidden around the other side of the mug. "Look, if it makes you feel better, I promise to do a very bad job hiding your body." "In that case, carry on," I yawned.

The door swung open and Zach stormed in. “Honey, I’m home!” Laughter followed. Rob smiled to himself. I’ll never get tired of hearing that. Zach came into the kitchen. Rob was standing by the counter, taking out muffins from a pan. He was wearing neon pink shorts with the print of little black dicks and flip-flops. The shorts were a ‘welcome to gay’ gift from Carson. On top of that, he had a navy suit jacket, a light blue shirt, and a silver tie. Zach came up to him and hugged him from behind. “Hey, baby!” Rob kissed his cheek. “How was your first day at school?