Asian male, early 30s, wearing pressed beige dress pants, black t-shirt, and spotless black sneakers, carrying a black computer bag with pink ribbon pinned to the pocket.

The Bonehunters, Steven Erikson (Bantam)

Page 285:

The animal looked as though pieced together from disparate, unidentifiable parts, only roughly approximately a dog’s shape. Humped, uneven shoulder muscles, a neck as thick round as a grown man’s thigh, misshapen, muscle-knitted haunches, a chest deep as a desert lion’s.

She kept her back to him, palming the crease scar. He stood behind her, one hand on her bare shoulder, the other on his waist, as if she was keeping him from crumpling.

Black woman, late 20s, wearing a black dress, black headband and pink suede sandals. A pink and black leather “courier” bag sits between her feet.

Coming Through Slaughter, Michael Ondaatje (Vintage)

Page 54:

Imagine the mis-shapen man who moved round the room, his grace as he swiveled round his tripod, the casual shot of the dresser that holds the photograph of the whore’s baby that she gave away, the plaster Christ on the wall. Compare Christ’s hands holding the metal spikes to the badly sewn appendix scar of the thirty year old naked woman he photographed when she returned to the room–unaware that he had already photographed her baby and her dresser and her crucifix and her rug. She now offering grotesque poses for an extra dollar and Bellocq grim and quiet saying No, just stand there on the wall, there that one, no keep the petticoat on this time.

In university, there had been a boy. She’d sat in her room, listening to The Pixies in her headphones, “Wave of Mutilation”, and getting dizzy off peach schnapps. He was at the pub, when he said he would be. She danced on his corner of the floor, watching his lanky frame sway in the tiled mirrors. Later, much later, he agreed to walk her home. She took his hand and placed it on her breast. His wrist locked and he pulled away. She heaved in her doorway, a fig covered in ants inches from her face.

Caucasian woman, early 40s, wearing a pink linen shirt and white capris. Her hair is wet, pulled back in a low ponytail. Her glasses start to slip down her nose and she reaches around the pole, using the snuff of her hand to right them. Suddenly, she looks up, startled, and utters a curse, biting her lip.

Prior Bad Acts, Tami Hoag (Bantam)

Page 219:

This wasn’t personal. He had no anger toward this woman, no real desire to kill her. But he couldn’t have her calling the police.

She runs through the weather report. Not too hot. No rain. Shade under the tree. Bowl should be full. There will be words from the neighbour. He’ll whine. Does this mean she’s left the back door unlocked, too? She imagines a phone call. He presses his paw on speaker phone and she tells him she’s sorry. She’ll be home as soon after work as possible. He’ll get treats, lots of treats. Then he hangs up and slobbers on the receiver, lumbering across the yard toward a squirrel running up a tree trunk.

Black woman, early 20s (maybe late teens), wearing skinny jeans, studded black belt, red sleeveless t-shirt and flip flops.

Body Clutter: Love Your Body, Love Yourself, Marla Cilley & Leanne Ely (Fireside)

About page 5:

However, there is always room for improvement. One of the neatest things about the journey of life is the ability to redefine oneself. Self-assessment can be painful at times, but all growing pains lead to growth, which is the important thing. If we are not growing, we are stagnating and, to me, that’s a fate worse than death.

She rubs her arm, fingering the length of her tricep, and glances up occasionally, considering her reflection in the doorway. She adjusts her stance, poking at her hips jutting beyond the waist of her low slung jeans. I’m tempted to say, “That’s bone. It’s not going anywhere.” But I know that for the past week I’ve been picturing my solo, single march down Church Street, row of rainbows greeting my arrival, hoping, just hoping, that this is the year I’m finally comfortable in my own skin.

Caucasian woman, mid 20s, light brown hair pulled into high ponytail, wearing pink “short” shorts and a white tank top. Matching tattoos book end each elbow crease, something with wings.

Something Blue, Emily Giffin (Griffin)

About page 35:

But then both he and Rachel flatly refused to include me in any post date gossip, and that irritated me as I was better friends with each of them then they could have become with each other on one stupid date.

She rocked back in the weathered patio chair and pulled a potato chip from the bag between her knees. The noise inside her head filled with the crunch of ridges, the edges scoring her cheeks. She was still sore from that morning, the sudden urge to make love brought on by an intense sadness, waking to find the world as she’d left it before the six pack. The salt and vinegar bit at the back of her throat, up her nose, and as the tears settled behind her eyes, she couldn’t tell the difference between pain and pleasure.