We welcomed you into Group A when Mr. Goldstein assigned you there. We didn’t object. We didn’t ask for a different partner, even though your computational skills are lacking.
We spilled more than secrets in that hotel room. Some wine, some coke, a box of yardsticks (.9144 meters).
Helene was there to teach me about the metric system.
Instead, we taught each other about love.
On the horizon stood every single sister from the convent armed to the teeth. In their alabaster hands they brandished clubs, bicycle chains, crucifixes ripped from the walls and sharpened on all points.
The vestal virgin apocalypse—their smothering cloaks flying and menacing weapons raised high—closed in around Perpetua. Mother Superior shot through their ranks, her black habit spreading behind her like expended rocket fuel from a missile.
There’s little difference between the gaze of my admirers and the gaze of my enemies.
I am master of the game, a 19-time free market champion, the Scotty dog on top of the world.
13. She touched my ankle, so I touched her neck, and then the spaces above and below it. And then she touched the bony expanse between my breasts and I thought about saying stop but instead decided to go on a scavenger hunt for places to bite: the space of her belly before her groin, her knee, the scar on her back that I lick, she laughs like a broken clock, and we both say enough to love.
But not a twin. For there was one difference between her and the Biker — an irreverence for silence. The Biker tossed her helmet aside, mounted her Harley, and gunned the engine. An apocalyptic din reverberated through the neighborhood, broadcasting lusty echoes off the nearby cathedral.