Caucasian male, mid 40s, in casual dress pants and indigo blue shirt, standing at the back of the last car, legs braced, shoulders hunched, rocking.

The Plot Against America, Philip Roth (Vintage)

Page 113:

It was the first time I saw my father cry. A childhood milestone, when another’s tears are more unbearable than one’s own.

As a boy, he sat on the edge of the dock, side-by-side with Dad, legs dangling, eating peanut butter cookies and watching the minnows scatter. His father pinched the back of his neck, bumping his forehead with his own and laughed at nothing but warmth and sunshine. The relatives approached, guiding their boat through the choppy waves. His father leaned forward, reaching out to grab an extended arm and slipped into the water. He bobbed up under the dock, a stray nail puncturing his cheek. The boy rolled over the edge, puking at the sight of his father’s blood mixed with tears.

Caucasian woman, mid 30s, wearing flared white pants and a sea green, waistlength leather jacket.

Going Home, Danielle Steele (Pocket Books)

Page 234:

As I stood there I thought of Gordon. This was a far cry from what I had with him. He was my old side, this was my young side. This was the side of me that still had dreams left in it, and they just wouldn’t quit.

Barefoot and giggling, she stood in the kitchen holding her mug to her bottom lip, blowing. She did the math as he stepped from the shower. It had been twenty-three years since she’d slept naked or read the newspaper in nothing but a man’s shirt. Now she blushed at the sight of his wet body, calves tight, age spots receding into a fading hairline.

Caucasian male, mid 30s, with short brown hair, in blue dress pants and pink pressed shirt, top button open, suit jacket over his arm.

Blink, Malcolm Gladwell (Little, Brown)

Page 194:

Perhaps the most common–and the most important–forms of rapid cognition are the judgments we make and the impressions we form of other people. Every waking minute that we are in the presence of someone, we come up with a constant stream of predictions and inferences about what that person is thinking and feeling. When someone says, “I love you,” we look into that person’s eyes to judge his or her sincerity.

He lies on his back turned towards her slightly. She sits naked beside him running her thumb along his forearm and smiles.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she replies, ducking her head lower to kiss his shoulder. She sits up again twisting her long hair into a ponytail, draping it over her shoulder and smiles.

He grins, his teeth peaking through loosened lips.

“What?” he asks again.

She leans back on the palms of her hands, extending her legs, feet rocking.

“Nothing.”

He rolls on his side, the awkward arm twisted over his shoulder and rubs her calf, dragging his lips over her ankle. He smiles.

“What?” she asks.

His laugh escapes.

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, with large, hoop earrings and short hair she pulls at for height, wearing low slung dress pants, white tank top and black suit jacket, a chain dangling from her belt to her side pocket.

Mouthing the Words, Camilla Gibb (Pedlar Press)

Page 166:

People don’t understand dead. They think it is all or nothing. I used to move between live and dead several times in the course of a day. Sometimes the transition was as brief and unremarkable as a sigh or a sentence.

She stands in the stream of hot water, sudsing the bar of soap, her arms braced against her breast. Her stomach flutters, she pushes harder, the hiccups in her chest growing into full anxiety. She hasn’t had any coffee in months, she exercises, she eats well, plenty of vegetables. She’s just standing in the shower. He’s sleeping an extra fifteen. Her tea sits on the bathroom counter, cooling. It’s finally sunny. There’s no reason for this. She puts her arms by her side and watches, the steady thumping punching against the thick of her belly. She exhales slowly and tells her body it’s her turn now. She runs the show. She holds her breath and waits, not afraid that it takes one step closer to death to calm her.

Caucasian woman, mid 30s, with salt and pepper hair, wearing rolled jeans with flip flops, yellow tank top and jean jacket.

The Girls, Lori Lansens (Vintage)

Page 147:

What a silhouette Ruby and I must have been, there against the glare from these high windows. Frankie reared back with a quick intake of breath and some words that sounded like What the fuck?

Excerpt from “Fading”, now appearing in Maisonneuve Magazine.

The light under the bathroom door went out. Alice closed the drawer and scanned the room grabbing details, things to remember from the moment before her life would change. Wicker basket. Pastel artwork. Mirrored doors. Hand weights. Eyes adjusting to the darkness, Alice felt the sting of bile against the back of her throat when Cass stepped into the moonlight in a lacy nightgown. It was delicate. Dainty. Where was the sporty tee from earlier sleepovers? Alice had imagined the sort of woman who wears a tuxedo shirt, or an undershirt under a cashmere cardigan while she shops for groceries. A woman who knows what she wants, not one who needs showing. This nightgown made Cass look feminine in a way that made Morgan Fairchild beautiful to many but hideous to Alice.

Standing rigid in her flannel bottoms and torn t-shirt, Alice felt like less than the man she’d need to be to please this girl. Cass must have known because she went to Alice, guiding her to push Cass’s nightie up past her waist. This was it. Like falling off your bike, or slipping on a patch of ice, or reaching the highest level of Pac Man with nowhere left to go, it wasn’t quite real. Hipbone to hipbone, Alice and Cass made out until their lips were chafed. Alice had become good at kissing. She knew that if she licked the corner of Cass’s mouth she’d gasp. Nip her bottom lip and she’d exhale loudly. Tonight, the girls created a tight seal, keeping their noises muffled to the curious ears in the next room. Cass ran her hands under Alice’s t-shirt, along the broad of her shoulders, hesitating slightly around a mole, then down the back of Alice’s underwear. Alice eagerly palmed Cass’s breasts—they were heavier than she imagined. She shifted forward onto the tips of her toes as if she didn’t have breasts of her own, bracing herself against Cass, strengthening her grip. Cass grabbed Alice’s wrist.

“Don’t.”

Alice backed away, falling onto the bed so forcefully that the brass headboard knocked against the wall.

“I just don’t feel anything in them.” Cass softened her tone. “Never have.”

Her nightgown continued to rest on her thick hips. Alice grimaced, thinking: My grandmother wears those underwear.

A sharp rap came at the door, Barb needing her face cream. Alice dove under the covers. A beat passed and Barb entered, moving quickly past Cass into the bathroom. Cass whispered after her, “She’s asleep.” Cass continued to stand in the middle of the room for no good reason. Barb stepped back into the room, face to face with Cass and her hips.

“You girls should close those blinds if you don’t want people seeing in.”

Barb left and Cass got into the bed, her back turned to Alice. Alice trained her eye on the night table waiting for the sounds from the next room to stop. Bowl of pocket change. Sweat-stained watchband. Emery board and nail polish. The neon clock bled 9:25 PM. It was over. When would this chance come again? Alice didn’t feel rejected so much as defeated.