Caucasian male, early 40s, settled deep into an easy chair, legs crossed wide, staking his claim in the early morning rush of bar drinks and lingering line ups.

The Communist’s Daughter, Dennis Bock (HarperCollins)

About page 177:

We found room in a railcar loaded with an irreplaceable cargo of government-issue rice, perhaps four hundred bags in all, stacked right to the ceiling. Approximately three hours into our journey, however, in the middle of the night, I was awakened by an all-encompassing silence. We were no longer moving.

He’s a young boy, about ten, moving his tray along the rails, considering the desserts. J-ello, red and green, in a glass sundae dish, topped with a hardening dollop of piped whipped cream. Milk chocolate pudding in a glass dish, topped, again, with a hardening dollop of piped whipped cream. A glass bowl of creamy rice pudding with raisins. Something layered and spongy, kind of creamy with a dusting of chocolate slivers. He lifts it and smells. Strong. Alcohol. The clock strikes the hour and he turns to scan the dark wood panel wall. The bird slides in and out, followed by the lederhosen couple chasing each other through the shell, two times. He looks toward the long hall leading to the women’s washroom, back to his table and his grandmother’s beige purse, tan overcoat. She has trouble swallowing and she’s been gone a long time.

Black man, early 30s, wearing dark blue jeans, brown leather shoes and a black fleece with loose American Apparel scarf wrapped around his neck. He looks up often, squinting at the clock, then back to his magazine. His legs are crossed at the ankle, feet bouncing.

Geist 66, Fall 2007 (The Geist Foundation)

Page 70:

From “American Soul” by Sheila Heti.

Roy says, “Do you think it is right–six years? For a wife not to sleep with a man? No, she is not my soulmate. My soulmate I met two years ago. God forgives me for it, I think. God understands. But this lady does not know that I believe she is my soulmate. I do not think my wife thinks I am her soulmate. She has never said anything about it. Your soulmate is the one that misses you.”

His feet stop rocking. He slips the magazine inside a bookstore bag, stands and stretches, the bottom of his fleece rising to reveal a curl of hair. He lowers his arms quickly, shoves his hands in his pockets, looks at a spot on the ground and crumples his brow as if only just remembering something. No, realizing something. No. Figuring something out.

Caucasian male, early 40s, wearing a blue checkered shirt under a collared sweater, his eyes a little tired, a little red.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows, J.K. Rowling (Raincoast)

Page 212:

Fight it, he told himself, but he knew that he could not conjure a Patronus here without revealing himself instantly. So he moved forwards, as silently as he could, and with every step he took numbness seemed to steal over his brain, but forced himself to think of Hermione and of Ron, who needed him.

Tonight his children will eat with their mother alone. She’s promised a take out bucket of chicken, creamy coleslaw and, if they’ve finished their homework, a trip for ice cream, maybe a whole banana split. The futon has been pulled out in the guestroom, ready for his return home, back from his father’s who will not have understood at his age of 78 how his son, his only child, could be a pervert.

Caucasian woman, late 20s, tall and trim in grey dress pants and a crisp white collared blouse, the handle of the plastic liquor store bag pinching at a respectable diamond engagement ring.

Away From Her, Alice Munro (Penguin Canada)

Page 171:

The bushes and trees would turn black, once the lights were on. There would just be black clumps along the road and the black mass of trees crowding in behind them, instead of, as now, the individual still identifiable spruce and cedar and feathery tamarack and the jewelweed with its flowers like winding bits of fire. It seemed close enough to touch, and they were going slowly. She put her hand out.

She lowers herself onto the stairs, looks out over the bay and hugs her sweater over her knees, blowing over the lip of her coffee mug. She feels like she’s in a movie, but what choice does she have? How else to explain to her future children how cottage sweaters are born?

Black girl, 15-16, tucked in the doorway, legs outstretched, hair pulled into a side ponytail. Under her black hoodie her tshirt reads a gemmed “R.I.P.” The image a faded photo of a young boy.

Thieves’ Paradise, Eric Jerome Dickey (Signet)

Page 171:

Electricity ran up my legs, seemed like every hair on my body stood tall, muscles locked up as I strained to set free what was inside of me; toes curled and I gripped the carpet, her hips, pulled her hair so hard I thought I was about to snatch out a handful, brought her face to mine and we kissed so hard, kissed until we both got lost in what we felt and let out enough sounds to make the neighbour’s three little dogs start barking like wolves underneath a full moon.

The text had come after her curfew and she was already late. A picture. Some girls would be flattered and he was cute, worth the risk. It wasn’t until after she’d agreed to meet, they’d shared some herb, that she saw it in person, wondering if maybe one of his buddies had sent the message.