Wink Wink Nudge Nudge Quotes

Harry and Hermione are very platonic friends. But I won't answer for anyone else, nudge-nudge wink-wink!

Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Know what I mean?

I winked and locked my arm in Carter's, and we stood there, watching Dean stroll away. "You know the guy's never gonna give up," Carter nudged me, letting out a sigh. "We'd have really pretty babies, huh?" "Yup. They'd be rad little Brangelinas, running around tearing the place up." "Yeah, you're right. My rejection is such a disservice to the world...

Too late I realized this sounded like a come-on. Yeah,Hayden, he would say,I want you to show me some-wink-stretches!-nudge nudge.

Lok’tar ogar!” The daemon holding me pulled my head back, exposing my throat. “Victory or death,” I retorted at my captor hoarsely. “For the Horde. And for the record, shouting World of Warcraft battle cries kind of kills the whole ‘imminent death’ expectation.” The daemon paused. “What server are you on?” he demanded. “Blackhand.” “Righteous. Guild?” I couldn’t imagine what the hell that mattered at this point, but it was keeping me alive so that was a bonus. I’d gladly spit out the rest of my Warcraft stats if it bought me a few more minutes. “Yeah,” I coughed. “ElfhunterBitches.” He blinked and then grinned, tapping himself on the chest. “No shit. I’m TartBarbie. Undead DeathKnight.” I stared at him. “TB? Seriously? I’m Baconator. Blelf Warlock. You did a hell of a job tanking on that raid the other night.” “Yeah, I am pretty awesome.” He glanced over his shoulder, releasing me. “Look, if I’d known it was you, I’d never have agreed to this. Go on.” He nudged me with a leather boot. “I’ll tell them you got away.” I didn’t have to be told twice. “Thanks,” I said softly. “I’ll make it up to you, somehow.” “No worries.” He winked. “See you next Thursday.

You have terminated me,” one of them said in a strange, flat voice. “But I am one of many.” “Robots!” Iggy breathed, taking Total from Angel. “One of many, one of many, one of many,” the robot Eraser was saying. Now Nudge saw the red light in its eyes, saw how they were fading and winking out. “Good!” spat the Gasman, kicking it hard. “Because we like to blow stuff up, blow stuff up, blow stuff up!

The so-called “black magician” is a “new brain” hominid fear-merchant who has somewhere learned that there are more powerful intimidations than physical assault. The dimensions of horror, terror and mindwarp are discovered. You can scare more people, and acquire greater power, by the exploitation of psychic assault. When a human’s “mind” or reality-construct is threatened, the person virtually ceases to exist as human, and regresses to the status of a terrorized mammal in a trap. Just as the physical bully feeds on fear and is thrown off stride by the appearance of real courage, the psychic terrorist feeds on gullibility and is baffled by intelligence. When the bully confronts true courage, he automatically ceases to attack. Instead, he seeks to make the maverick into an ally, and often offers the position of second-in-command. If that is declined in a respectful (not churlish) manner, he will probably agree to recognize the other as a separate sovereign with a private turf. The psychic terrorist, similarly, is only accustomed to bamboozling the credulous. Confronted with a self-disciplined independent mind, he hesitates. Eventually, like the physical bully, he laughs and offers comradeship. “You and me, we’re smart. We’re not like these other jerks.” A nudge and a conspiratorial wink.

...You know how you have real-life time versus story time, how stories leave out the boring bits and condense so much? A long-form RPG has some substance to it, leaves time to wander the desert or have a conversation or hang out in a pub. It might not be the closest thing to real life but pacing-wise it's closer than a movie or a TV show or a novel.

Yeah,” "Jah said, seriously taking in Spooky’s words. “You’re right, my dude. I’m just gonna lay it out for shorty and let the cards fall wherever they fall.” “That’s what I’m talking about.” Spooky nudged him. “And when you speak to Yoshi, ask her if she’s got a friend.” “How the hell … ?” “Jah, you’re like my brother. I know you.” Spooky gave him a wink.

let Jacob explain it away as a domestic altercation, just those histrionic women being dramatic, more wink-wink nudge-nudge, you know how the little women are.

It’s funny, but when I talk about this business of my father and Valentina with my women friends, they’re absolutely appalled. They see a vulnerable old man who’s being exploited. Yet all the men I talk to—without any exception, Mike” (I wag my finger) “they respond with these wry knowing smiles, these little admiring chuckles. Oh, what a lad he is. What an achievement, pulling this much younger bird. Best of luck to him. Let him have his bit of fun.” “You must admit, it’s done him good.” “I don’t admit anything.” (It’s much less satisfying arguing with Mike than with Vera or Pappa. He’s always so irritatingly reasonable.) “Are you sure you’re not just being a bit puritanical?” “Of course I’m not!” (So what if I am?) “It’s because he’s my father—I just want him to be grown up.” “He is being grown up, in his way.” “No he’s not, he’s being a lad. An eighty-four-year-old lad. You’re all being lads together. Wink wink. Nudge nudge. What a great pair of knockers. For goodness’ sake!” My voice has risen to a shriek. “But you can see it’s doing him good, this new relationship. It’s breathed new life into him. Just goes to show that you’re never too old for love.” “You mean for sex.” “Well, maybe that as well. Your Dad is just hoping to fulfil every man’s dream—to lie in the arms of a beautiful younger woman.” “Every man’s dream?” That night Mike and I sleep in separate beds.

(...) When things get too good... I get out. Well. I guess to a degree we all do. But most pull out; ride off into the sunset with a wave and a wink and a "Heigh-o-Silver." But not me. I am a pusher. I nudge and kvetch and cry and demand until I leave my partner no possible alternative but for him to run for his life. (...)

You'll have that handsome rogue you married at your knees, my dear." Franny giggled. "You really think so, senora?" "I certainly do, my dear." Willow nudged the girl in the ribs. "Take it from me, Miriam knows what she's talking about!" "Good grief, Willow!" Miriam protested. "You make me sound like I'm an expert on seducing men! I find that not the least bit flattering." Willow winked at Franny, and Miriam rolled her eyes skyward.

Everyone is saying how we had sex in the hot tub and I’m a slut and you don’t even care!” “I told the guys we didn’t!” “Did you? Did you tell them that all we did was kiss and that’s all we’ve ever done?” Peter hesitates, and I go on. “Or did you say, ‘Guys, we didn’t have sex in the hot tub,’ wink wink, nudge nudge.” Peter glares at me. “Give me a little more credit than that, Covey.” “You’re such a scumbag, Kavinsky.” I spin around. There is Josh, in the doorway, glaring at Peter. “It’s your fault people are saying that crap about Lara Jean.” Josh shakes his head in disgust. “She’d never do that.” “Keep your voice down,” I whisper, my eyes darting around. This is not happening right now. At recital party, with everyone I’ve ever known my whole entire life in the next room. Peter’s jaw twitches. “This is a private conversation, Josh, between me and my girlfriend. Why don’t you go play World of Warcraft or something. Or maybe there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon on TV.” “Fuck you, Kavinsky,” Josh says. I gasp. To me Josh says, “Lara Jean, this is exactly what I’ve been trying to protect you from. He’s not good enough for you. He’s only bringing you down.” Beside me Peter stiffens. “Get over it! She doesn’t like you anymore. It’s over. Move on.” “You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Josh says. “Whatever, dude. She told me you tried to kiss her. You try that again, and I’m kicking your ass.

Cass snorted with laughter. “She’s a real beast with a bellyful of bedsprings. Wouldn’t wanna be the one to break her in,” he said in his thick Irish brogue. “Reminds me of that hot-blooded redhead in Omaha.” He nudged Sully with a salacious wink. “What was her name again?” Sully chuckled. “Molly.” “Oh yeah, Molly.” A broad grin of reminiscence showed on Cass’s face. “Was a real beauty, that one, wasn’t she? We should name this filly after her.” “We should,” Sully agreed, scratching the adolescent red fuzz on his chin. “Was she your horse, Cass?” Willie asked, giving the young Irishman a curious stare. “Hmm?” Not paying the boy much attention, Cass took a long drag on his cigarette. His slanted green eyes followed the mare’s nervous movements attentively. “Well, Molly?” Willie blinked with impatience. “Was she?” Cass gave him a baffled look, as if he didn’t understand the question. Then, a wide grin blazed across his angular face while smoke came drifting out of his mouth. “Yeah, she was,” he nodded, smirking, and exchanged a brief, meaningful look with Sully. “Had fire and was classy, too, like this one.” Sully hooted with laughter, and Cass joined in. “What happened to her?” Something was funny, but Willie didn’t grasp what it was. Cass took another puff, then smirked again. “Well, I kinda had to get rid of her, kid. A filly like that can take ya to an early grave, y’know. She wears ya out so utterly you’re barely able to walk afterwards.

It’s the typical hungry-vagina fodder, written in the same cotton-candy verbiage: “To really wow your guy pal, wait until he’s almost there”—this is written in italics, an editorial nudge-wink—”and then put him in your mouth for a mind-blowing climax.” Tasha is always annoyed by the use of “him” in place of “penis.” What if she didn’t know any better? What if she thought “him” meant him? All of him? She imagines herself an anaconda of a woman, her jaw unhinged, swallowing her lover like a reptilian black widow.

I’m sipping cranberry-and-ginger-ale punch and talking to Aunt D. about her divorce when Peter Kavinsky walks in wearing a hunter-green sweater with a button-down shirt underneath, carrying a Christmas tin. I almost choke on my punch. Kitty spots him when I do. “You came!” she cries. She runs right into his arms, and he puts down the cookie tin and picks her up and throws her around. When he sets her down, she takes him by the hand and over to the buffet table, where I’m busying myself rearranging the cookie plate. “Look what Peter brought,” she says, pushing him forward. He hands me the cookie tin. “Here. Fruitcake cookies my mom made.” “What are you doing here?” I whisper accusingly. “The kid invited me.” He jerks his head toward Kitty, who has conveniently run back over to the puppy. Josh is standing up now, looking over at us with a frown on his face. “We need to talk.” So now he wants to talk. Well, too late. “We don’t have anything to talk about.” Peter takes me by the elbow and I try to shake him off, but he won’t let go. He steers me into the kitchen. “I want you to make up an excuse to Kitty and leave,” I say. “And you can take your fruitcake cookies with you.” “First tell me why you’re so pissed at me.” “Because!” I burst out. “Everyone is saying how we had sex in the hot tub and I’m a slut and you don’t even care!” “I told the guys we didn’t!” “Did you? Did you tell them that all we did was kiss and that’s all we’ve ever done?” Peter hesitates, and I go on. “Or did you say, ‘Guys, we didn’t have sex in the hot tub,’ wink wink, nudge nudge.

Kane crossed the room and hunkered down next to me. He placed his elbow on the arm of the sofa behind me and gently scratched my back which his fingers. “Why don’t you come to bed?” His voice was low and inviting. “Maybe because she has company, i.e. me, you dirty bastard.” Keela flared. “Stop seducin’ her when I’m sittin’ right next to your nasty arse.” I beamed at Keela, and Kane smiled at me. He used his free hand to swipe away the already forgotten tears on my cheeks. “There’s my babydoll.” Keela giggled. “That’s adorable, but you’re still nasty.” I flicked my eyes in her direction and playfully narrowed them. “Do you mind?” “Not at all,” she acknowledged. “You do your thing.” Kane nudged me and gave me a wink. “You shouldn’t have ever fed her, she’ll never leave now.” Keela gasped in mock horror. “I’m not a dog. How dare you!

I panted as he pulled me back through the entryway, hands on my waist, kissing the whole way, and collapsed backward onto the gray leather couch, which felt softer than my skin. I fell on top of him, straddling his lap. He kissed his way down my neck and across the collar of my blouse, leaving a trail of fire behind. "Enough of that," I panted, ripping my shirt over my head. Thank goodness I'd worn a decent bra today---blue satin with a bow in the middle, not frayed or torn anywhere. He eyed it with a growl of approval, but maybe it wasn't a growl for the bra at all, because a moment of fumbling over my back and---pop---I shook off my now unfastened bra. "And to think you didn't like me at first." He drank me in unabashedly, his eyes roaming from belly to breasts to nose to eyes, and each inch his eyes traveled made me feel more and more powerful. Like I could go anywhere, do anything. Except all I wanted to do was right here. I ground against him, feeling his cock already hard and strong under his zipper. "Who says I like you now?" He gasped and pulled me tighter onto him. "If this is what you do to people you don't like, what do you do to people you do like?" I silenced him with another kiss as I rubbed up and down him again. Now my own sex was throbbing, and I sucked in a breath with every movement. I kept moving up and down as he kissed my breasts, tongue tracing lightly over each nipple. When I couldn't take it anymore, I tumbled to the side, lying down on the couch and pulling him on top of me. Because his was an expensive couch and not the cheap one my old roommate had bought at Ikea, there was plenty of room for us to writhe without making me feel like I might topple off the edge. He went down to kiss my breasts again... and kept going. His tongue slid down my stomach, did a lazy circle around my belly button. I clenched my teeth, holding back a beg for more as he slowly, slowly, way too slowly unzipped my skirt and tugged it down. I kicked it off, along with my underwear, when he reached my knees, nearly clipping him on the ear. When I felt close to the edge, I reached down and pulled him up. My hand moved down and took over, zeroing in on just the right spot on my clit. It didn't take long. I shuddered against his shoulder, biting back a cry, then wondered why I was biting it back and let it out. Breathing hard, my head collapsed back into the cushion. I was a little worried that now post-orgasm clarity would descend upon me and be like, What the hell are you doing, Julie? but the post-orgasm clarity seemed to approve. With a wink and a nudge, it made me pull away, and the desire roared back inside me. "That's why it's great to have a clitoris," I told Bennett. "Multiple orgasms.

The American share of the crisis began with grossly improper mortgages provided to wholly unqualified borrowers, all directly caused and encouraged by government distortion of and interference in the market. The government’s market deformation and market intervention was in turn the result of two factors: political favouritism and Leftist ideology, on the one hand; and upon the other, corruption: the blatant cooption of such Friends of Angelo as Mr Dodd and of such bien-pensant Lefties as Mr Frank. The stability and efficiency of any market is directly proportional to the amount and trustworthiness of market information. The Yank Congress, for blatantly partisan and ideological reasons, gave out false information to the market, pushing lenders into making bad loans and giving out, with the appropriate winks and nudges, that Fannie (will Americans ever realise how that sounds) and Freddie, imperfectly quangoised, were ‘really just as good as the Treasury’ and were in any case ‘too big to [be let] fail’: which, as it happens, was untrue. Similarly, this moronic mantra of ‘too big to fail’ was chanted desperately and loudly to drown out the warning sounds of various financial institutions on the brink and of the automobile industry. Incomprehensible sums of public money were thrown at these corporations so that they could avoid bankruptcy, and have succeeded only in privatising profit whilst socialising risk.

friends had started hanging around. Franny could feel her stomach hardening and twisting into knots when they arrived, pushing and shoving one another and tripping over their huge basketball shoes. It was a wonder they didn’t knock over a display rack or topple one of the neatly stacked pyramids of paint cans. They seemed to be everywhere at once, and she couldn’t possibly keep an eye on all of them. Actually, she was a little afraid of them. While they dressed like kids, she knew they were actually young men. They were bigger than she was and full of rough male energy. From what she observed it seemed Ben was their leader and they were reporting to him. She was sure they were up to no good. Their whispered conversation was full of winks and nudges, and they constantly checked over their shoulders to see if they were being overheard. She tried to keep her distance, but if she had to approach them to help a customer, she noticed they would move away or fall silent. Whenever Mr. Slack appeared, they disappeared. Returning to the invoices, Franny went through them one more time. She couldn’t understand it. According to the paperwork, the store had received enough batteries to last through the summer, based on her best estimate using last year’s figures. They’d gotten twenty boxes each of AA and D batteries, the most popular sellers, and ten boxes each of the other sizes. Last week she’d noticed the display rack was nearly empty, and she’d asked Ben to fill it. “Can’t,” he’d said, avoiding her eyes. “They’re all gone.” “There should be plenty in the storeroom,” she’d insisted, looking curiously at his two buddies, who were lounging by the paint display. They seemed to find the conversation extremely amusing. “Go check again.” “There’s no point. I’m telling you, they’re all gone. Look, I’m taking a break now,” he’d said, signaling his friends to follow him outside. Sure enough, she couldn’t find any batteries in the storeroom, either. She was sure they hadn’t been sold; she would have noticed the unusual number of sales and ordered more. Where had they gone? It was very disturbing, especially since she’d been having such a hard time lately making up the bank deposit. That was always the first task of the day. She would take the previous day’s take out of the safe and add up the checks and cash, square them with the total sales figure, and fill out the deposit slip. Then Mr. Slack would put the whole business in a blue vinyl zippered pouch and take it to the red-brick bank across the street. For the past few weeks, however, she hadn’t been able to get the figures to match, even though

There's no such thing as a mercenary suicide bomber.

Cheaters make unilateral decisions about their victim’s health, welfare, and finances. And they act in secret, because chumps have value to them—value they want to continue extracting. Chumps can waste years in a marriage not knowing the truth about being defrauded. And so much of our culture wants us to think these costs are frivolous. Infidelity is the jolly subject of romantic comedies or women’s magazine articles about the naughty fun of being a mistress. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Victimless crime!

No picture could have more aptly described the feeling of transcendent peace that I felt that day. I was beginning to grow fond of these little love nudges that God kept sending in my direction. I used to be completely incapable of seeing these things, but I was starting to see signs like these more often. Each time I did, I felt like God was winking at me. Not in an attempt to get my attention, but as a reminder that He was near, that He would remain faithful even if I were not. I wondered how many times He’d displayed acts like this before to a blind audience?

And the stars came out. One by one that bright assemblage gathered in the sky, twinkling their messages to each other, comparing in light mood their impressions of the earth, which looked to them so piteously, so thankfully, its soul straining upwards to their heights. And while they winked mischievously at one another, they looked down and smiled indulgently. They were so old and loving, had seen so many generations of men, had heard over and over again the same heart-beats and sobs and laughter; there was no mistery they did not know, there was no happiness they had not shared. Nothing was new to them: the cry in the night; the gaze of upturned eyes, through which there looked the wildness or the bewilderment of the soul; the bitter anguish of the very young -- with these they were familiar. And custom had taught them but one comment on these things: "They will be better in the morning" -- the morning which they themselves would not see for the brightness of the sun. They knew themselves for kindly sceptics, but men, looking at them in the dark, believed them to be possessed of illimitable wisdom and took comfort, so that the stars tried to nudge each other, and then they twinkled more merrily than ever, and men were glad, after all, to live. And to all, sooner or later, comes the morning, bringing good things.

As for me, if ever I’m out on a job and a police dog gets released, I just stand still with my hands over my privates. Both hands. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink, ladies.

What do you do for fun?” he asked. And suddenly we weren’t at a table with a large group of people anymore. It was just Brad and me. We’d moved from a wink to a nudge to a discussion, but his interest was going to disappear if I didn’t think of something exciting to share. “I like to read mysteries.” “Read.” He repeated the word like I’d just told him that I enjoyed stepping in dog poop.

Jake flattened the knife against the wall, filling the crevice. It was all he could do to smother a grin. He didn’t know which he’d enjoyed more, spending a couple hours alone with the kids or finding new ways to provoke Meridith. And to think he was getting paid. Maybe once she went back outside, the kids would come down and pretend to play a game at the kitchen bar while they talked. He could hear Meridith talking to them now, asking them about the game they’d supposedly been playing, acting all interested in their activities. If she really cared about them, she wouldn’t be ripping the kids from Summer Place just so she could go back and live happily ever after with her fiancé. And he was pretty sure that’s what she was planning. Their voices grew louder, then Jake saw them all descending the steps. Noelle led the pack, carrying her Uno cards, followed by the boys, then Meridith. Noelle winked on her way past. Little imp. The kids perched at the bar, and he heard the cards being shuffled. Dipping his knife into the mud, Jake sneaked a peek. Meridith was opening the dishwasher. Great. Ben kept turning to look at him, and Jake discreetly shook his head. Even though Meridith faced the other way, no need to be careless. “Noelle, you haven’t said anything about your uncle lately. He hasn’t e-mailed yet?” He felt three pairs of eyes on his back. He hoped Meridith was shelving something. Jake smoothed the mud and turned to gather more, an excuse to appraise the scene. Meridith’s back was turned. He gave the kids a look. “Uh, no, he hasn’t e-mailed.” “Or called or nothing,” Max added. Noelle silently nudged him, and Max gave an exaggerated shrug. What? “Well, let me know when he does. I don’t want to keep pestering you.” “Sure thing,” Noelle said, dealing the cards. Her eyes flickered toward him. “I was thinking we might go for a bike ride this evening,” Meridith said. “Maybe go up to ’Sconset or into town. You all have bikes, right?” “I forgot to tell you,” Noelle said. “I’m going to Lexi’s tonight. I’m spending the night.” “Who’s Lexi?” “A friend from church. You met her mom last week.” A glass clinked as she placed it in the cupboard. “Noelle, I’m not sure how things were . . . before . . . but you have to ask permission for things like this. I don’t even know Lexi, much less her family.” “I know them.” “Have you spent the night before?” “No, but I’ve been to her house tons of times.” He heard a dishwasher rack rolling in, another rolling out, the dishes rattling. “Why don’t we have her family over for dinner one night this week? I could get to know them, and then we’ll see about overnight plans.” “This is ridiculous. They go to our church, and her mom and my mom were friends!” Noelle cast him a look. See? she said with her eyes. Did Meridith think Eva would jeopardize her daughter’s safety? The woman was neurotic. Jake clamped his teeth together before something slipped out. “Just because they go to church doesn’t necessarily make them safe, Noelle. It wouldn’t be responsible to let you spend the night with people I don’t know. You never know what goes on behind closed doors.” “My mom would let me.” The air seemed to vibrate with tension. Jake realized his knife was still, flattened against the wall, and he reached for more mud. Noelle was glaring at Meridith, who’d turned, wielding a spatula. Was she going to blow it? To her credit, the woman drew a deep breath, holding her temper. “Maybe Lexi could stay all night with you instead.” “Well, wouldn’t that pose a problem for her family, since they don’t know you?” Despite his irritation with Meridith, Jake’s lips twitched. Score one for Noelle. “I suppose that would be up to her family.” He heard Noelle’s cards hit the table, her chair screech across the floor as she stood. “Never mind.” She cast Meridith one final glare, then exited through the back door, closing it with a hearty slam.

That’s it,” Rachel whispered, a horrified look on her beautiful face. “This is where I die. In a furniture store the size of freakin’ Costco!” She shuffled off after the saleswoman and I quickly caught up to her side. When I got there, her psychotic-Barbie look was back. “Did you know the leather couches we’re about to look at have a warranty for ten years? No cracks!” “Oh, well in that case, I have to buy these. Right?” “Of course.” She got oddly silent as we followed along and out of nowhere started dancing all crazy and lip-syncing to the song playing throughout the store. I stopped, my eyes going wide as I watched her. As soon as the chorus ended she stopped, and just in time, since our saleswoman had turned to see why we weren’t with her. “Y’all coming?” “Yes, ma’am!” Rachel answered since I was still looking at her with my jaw dropped. Her serene expression began cracking and she bit down on her bottom lip to keep from laughing. Glancing over at me, she gave me a soft nudge and winked before walking over to the next living room set, leaving me staring after her before I burst out laughing. Damn, I’m pretty sure I just fell in love with Rachel Masters.   R

I needed to grab another box of screws, but, when I got to the truck, I realized I’d left my wallet in my tool bucket. When I went back ground the house to get it, she had my plans open and was double-checking all my measurements.” Emma’s cheeks burned when Gram laughed at Sean’s story, but, since she couldn’t deny it, she stuck her last bite of the fabulous steak he’d grilled into her mouth. “That’s my Emma,” Gram said. “I think her first words were ‘If you want something done right, do it yourself.’” “In my defense,” she said when she’d swallowed, pointing her fork at Sean for emphasis, “my name is on the truck, and being able to pound nails doesn’t make you a builder. I have a responsibility to my clients to make sure they get quality work.” “I do quality work.” “I know you build a quality deck, but stairs are tricky.” She smiled sweetly at him. “I had to double-check.” “It’s all done but the seating now and it’s good work, even though I practically had to duct tape you to a tree in order to work in peace.” She might have taken offense at his words if not for the fact he was playing footsie with her under the table. And when he nudged her foot to get her to look at him, he winked in that way that—along with the grin—made it almost impossible for her to be mad at him. “It’s Sean’s turn to wash tonight. Emma, you dry and I’ll put away.” “I’ll wash, Gram. Sean can dry.” “I can wash,” Sean told her. “The world won’t come to an end if I wash the silverware before the cups.” “It makes me twitch.” “I know it does. That’s why I do it.” He leaned over and kissed her before she could protest. “That new undercover-cop show I like is on tonight,” Gram said as they cleared the table. “Maybe Sean won’t snort his way through this episode.” He laughed and started filling the sink with hot, soapy water. “I’m sorry, but if he keeps shoving his gun in his waistband like that, he’s going to shoot his…he’s going to shoot himself in a place men don’t want to be shot.” Emma watched him dump the plates and silverware into the water—while three coffee mugs sat on the counter waiting to be washed—but forced herself to ignore it. “Can’t be worse than the movie the other night.” “That was just stupid,” Sean said while Gram laughed. They’d tried to watch a military-action movie and by the time they were fifteen minutes in, she thought they were going to have to medicate Sean if they wanted to see the end. After a particularly heated lecture about what helicopters could and couldn’t do, Emma had hushed him, but he’d still snorted so often in derision she was surprised he hadn’t done permanent damage to his sinuses. “I don’t want you to think that’s real life,” he told them. “I promise,” Gram said, “if I ever want to use a tank to break somebody out of a federal prison, I’ll ask you how to do it correctly first.” Sean kissed the top of her head. “Thanks, Cat. At least you appreciate me, unlike Emma, who just tells me to shut up.” “I’d appreciate you more if there wasn’t salad dressing floating in the dishwater you’re about to wash my coffee cup in.” “According to the official guy’s handbook, if I keep doing it wrong, you’re supposed to let me watch SportsCenter while you do it yourself.” “Did the official guy’s handbook also tell you that if that happens, you’ll also be free to watch the late-night sports show while I do other things myself?

Rick nudged Amelia and grinned. “Hey, stick with me baby, and I’ll keep you in shape. Good food. Exercise. Fun games. You name it.” He wiggled his eyebrows flirtatiously. “And plenty of lovin’. I guarantee it.” An elderly couple sat on a bench, gazing at the scenery. The man grinned at Rick as he approached and gave an approving nod. Apparently they had heard his insinuations. Rick had spoken loud enough. “You’ve got the right idea, young man,” said the elderly gentleman as he winked at his wife. “Plenty of lovin’. That’s what we do for sure.

As former deputy head of the presidential administration, later deputy prime minister and then assistant to the President on foreign affairs, Surkov has directed Russian society like one great reality show. He claps once and a new political party appears. He claps again and creates Nashi, the Russian equivalent of the Hitler Youth, who are trained for street battles with potential prodemocracy supporters and burn books by unpatriotic writers on Red Square. As deputy head of the administration he would meet once a week with the heads of the television channels in his Kremlin office, instructing them on whom to attack and whom to defend, who is allowed on TV and who is banned, how the President is to be presented, and the very language and categories the country thinks and feels in. The Ostankino TV presenters, instructed by Surkov, pluck a theme (oligarchs, America, the Middle East) and speak for twenty minutes, hinting, nudging, winking, insinuating though rarely ever saying anything directly, repeating words like “them” and “the enemy” endlessly until they are imprinted on the mind. They repeat the great mantras of the era: the President is the President of “stability,” the antithesis to the era of “confusion and twilight” in the 1990s. “Stability”—the word is repeated again and again in a myriad seemingly irrelevant contexts until it echoes and tolls like a great bell and seems to mean everything good; anyone who opposes the President is an enemy of the great God of “stability.” “Effective manager,” a term quarried from Western corporate speak, is transmuted into a term to venerate the President as the most “effective manager” of all. “Effective” becomes the raison d’être for everything: Stalin was an “effective manager” who had to make sacrifices for the sake of being “effective.” The words trickle into the streets: “Our relationship is not effective” lovers tell each other when they break up. “Effective,” “stability”: no one can quite define what they actually mean, and as the city transforms and surges, everyone senses things are the very opposite of stable, and certainly nothing is “effective,” but the way Surkov and his puppets use them the words have taken on a life of their own and act like falling axes over anyone who is in any way disloyal.

Reflecting on the appeal of history in Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey, heroine Catherine Morland comments, “I often think it odd that it should be so dull, for a great deal of it must be invention.” Indeed. And in no field of American endeavor is invention more rampant than in baseball, whose whole history is a lie from beginning to end, from its creation myth to its rosy models of commerce, community, and fair play. The game’s epic feats and revered figures, its pieties about racial harmony and bleacher democracy, its artful blurring of sport and business—all of it is bunk, tossed up with a wink and a nudge. Yet we love both the game and the flimflam because they are both so . . . American.

Thank you for captaining your own lunch date,” he told her with a smile. “My pleasure,” she said, smiling back. If she’d thought it would be at all awkward or tense, returning to reality, it wasn’t. But they were still out on the docks, still in their own bubble. She was quite certain it would burst soon enough, so she took their last few moments and enjoyed them while she could. “Oh, no,” he said, his smile spreading to a grin as he winked. “The pleasure was all mine. Well, maybe not all mine.” She might have blushed a little. “True enough,” she said, nudging at his shoulder as delight spread across his face when he realized her cheeks were a bit pink. “You’re a wonder, Kerry McCrae,” he said, dipping his head, kissing each warm cheek, her nose, then her mouth. The first kisses were sweet, the last one utterly carnal. He did that to her. Made her feel cherished one moment and utterly desirable the next. She might have been breathing just a bit unevenly when he lifted his head, a gleam of an entirely different sort in his eyes now.

It was hard not to think the Proud Boys and Trump had some kind of nudge-wink arrangement, similar in some ways to Biden claiming Antifa was only an idea.

Beau caught me staring and winked. I bit my bottom lip to keep from laughing. A sharp elbow nudged me in the ribs, causing me to gasp and spin around to find the person who belonged to the boney arm. Lana was smiling innocently at me. “You’re being obvious,” she hissed, keeping a fake smile on her face. Her meaning, however, sunk in. “I need to go to the car and get my phone. My mom’s probably called me ten times by now,” Lana announced. “I’ll go with you,” I quickly replied, glancing up at Sawyer, who seemed pleased I was being nice to my cousin. I used to seek out this sort of approval from him, but now it annoyed me. If I didn’t like my cousin, I’d stomp on her foot just to piss him off. Once we were safely out of the clearing and headed for the car, Lana stopped walking and turned to glare at me. “You’ve about ten minutes or so to get yourself together before your knight in shining armor comes looking for us. I’m going to go get my phone and make a few calls.” I frowned. “What do you mean?” “I mean you need to stop openly flirting with Beau while the entire football team is around to witness it. It’s like you two think you’re the only ones out there. We all have eyes, you know.” She spun around and headed deeper into the pecan orchard and toward the parked cars. “She’s got a point, but it’s my fault.” Beau’s voice should have startled me, but it didn’t. Somehow I knew he’d find a way to get me alone. “Yes, it probably is,” I said teasingly as I turned around to meet his gaze. Beau took a step toward me and ran his hand through his hair, muttering a curse. “I want to rip his damn arms off his body, Ash. Sawyer, who I’d do anything for. I want to hurt him. If he touches you again in front of me, I’m going to crack. I can’t take this.

squatted at the corner of the hutch one more time. They’d been trying for an hour to get it loaded, but no matter how many different angles they attempted, it was too heavy for him and Violet to move on their own, especially with Violet’s arm still in a cast. “Let me give it a try.” Barney stepped forward, and Nate scrutinized him. He didn’t appear frail by any stretch, but the man was nearly ninety years old. Nate didn’t want to be responsible for breaking him. “Barnabas Riley, step away from that hutch right this minute.” Gladys bustled into the room, pointing a spatula at her husband. Barney stepped back. “Busted.” But he nudged Nate and whispered, “I wasn’t really going to do it. Just had to show her I’m still willing.” Nate laughed with him, but Violet gave the hutch a regretful pat. “Looks like it wasn’t meant to be.” “Hold on a minute, dear. You’re the one we want to have this.” Gladys disappeared again. Nate and Violet both looked at Barney, but he threw his hands into the air. “Even after sixty-five years of marriage, I don’t understand everything about that woman.” He winked at them again. “Keeps me on my toes.” Three minutes later, Gladys reappeared. “I called Sylvia, and she said her grandson can come over to help us.” “That’s great.” Violet pulled out a chair to sit down and stifled a yawn. She looked exhausted. “In the morning,” Gladys finished. Violet dropped the hand that had been covering her yawn. “I’m sorry. I don’t think we can come back tomorrow.” “Of course not.” Gladys waved her objection away. “You can stay with us. It’s getting late anyway. You don’t want to drive back yet tonight.” Nate stole a subtle peek at the time. It was already eight o’clock. And Violet looked ready to drop. She gave him a questioning look, and he shrugged, hoping she would understand that meant it was up to her. “I guess that would work. The store is always closed on Mondays anyway.” Her eyes traveled to Nate. “Unless you need to be in the office.” He should be. He really should be. If Dad called and he didn’t answer, he would never hear the end of it. But right now, he cared more about what Violet needed. And she needed this hutch to save her store. “I don’t need to be in the office.” “Oh, but Tony―” Violet clasped his arm. She had a point there. He couldn’t leave his dog uncared for. “Unless.” Violet pulled out her phone. “Just a second.” She wandered toward the kitchen with the phone pressed to her ear. “Looks like I’m not the only one with a mysterious woman.” Barney chuckled so hard he broke into a coughing fit. “Oh, we’re―” “Neighbors.” Gladys rested a hand on her husband’s back. “We know.” Barney stopped coughing and straightened, shooting Nate a wink. Nate was about to argue more, but Violet stepped back into the room. Her smile was enough to steal his protest. “Sophie’s going to stop by to take care of Tony tonight and tomorrow morning. I hope you don’t mind, but I told her about your super-secret hiding spot for the spare key.” Nate pretended to be shocked. “How do you know about that?” “I saw you putting it under the mat the other day when you forgot your keys, remember?” He did remember. He had been especially enchanted by her laugh that day. It was amazing how many of his recent memories involved her. Including

No one–and I mean no one!–ever sat me down, nudged me, or gave me the elbow or the wink that getting old would be like this. Why is that?! If I had known, I would have been at least a bit prepared for the cyclone event that would befall me. No elderly person I’ve known ever looked hysterical, ran around panting like a dog, or screamed like a banshee while ripping off their clothes and diving into the sea! So, why no muffled screams from the cheap seats? Why no letter have I received, sealed with an emblem in blood and no return address, simply marked: “Warning—dated material enclosed—Run!” Come on now, elderly people look so cute and sweet. I see them on the bus, at church, on laxative commercials, but always smiling. Have they been warned that if you scream your bloody guts off—you will be banished to Century Park Village, sans any golf cart or Ibuprofen? What I have witnessed my body do in the past 10 years would scare a newborn back into the womb. And trust me, if ‘Seth spoke’, he’d definitely have a few things to say about this shit show! And where the hell is “Bridget Jones’s Diary: Menopocalypse!” Knee-Deep in a Hot Flash!?

From that moment on, I’ve fantasized about showing up at his door for a cup of sugar, wink wink nudge nudge, while wearing tiny shorts and a see-through top with a lacy bra underneath.

Simpson chuckles as he shoots the shit about his relationship with his girlfriend, Paula Barbieri. He volunteers a story from after his last breakup with Nicole. She had returned an expensive diamond bracelet he’d given her as a birthday present. Simpson then presented it to Paula and pretended he’d bought it for her. Scamming one woman immediately after his breakup with another, who, at that moment, was lying on a cold metal coroner’s table! I couldn’t believe the way he told Vannatter and Lange about that. “I get into a funny place here on all this, all right?” he says. Wink-wink nudge-nudge. “Yeah,” they chime back. You could practically hear the towels snapping in the men’s locker room.