Cupping one hand for a receptacle, she brushed bits of olive from his knees and thighs.
—bee-stung lips, high round breasts, narrow hips…
Then she moved to New York and embarked on the long process of sleeping with every dishonest, casually sadistic, terminally uncommitted really gorgeous guy in the borough of Manhattan.
Gitanas crossed his arms in the wound-up European style, his fists jammed into his armpits.
“She gets pleasure from it,” Gary said. “What do you get pleasure from?”
Earnest humanoids in unisex pajamas.
He, of course, was mentally ill, whereas she! She!
Chipper considered the life of a girl.
“I’m a Wolf, but basically I’m a Bear.”
Perfectly submissive, infinitely forgiving, and so respectable you could take her to church and the symphony and the St. Jude Repertory Theatre.
Too-precipitous intimacy had left in its wake a kind of dirty awkwardness.
Two empty hours were a sinus in which infections bred.
Life as she knew it ended with her sneeze through the half-open door.
Unperspiring virtuosity was undeniably Emile’s great gift.
He fitted the cookie in his mouth. Chewed carefully and swallowed. It was hell to get old.
His hands wagged. They always wagged.
Gary sniffed her dish towel before he dried his hands with it.
She touched his left knee, to no avail.
Denise’s contempt then was so pure and so strong, it was almost better than sex.
They talked about the weather.
[genuine quotes from Franzen‘s The Corrections: because quoting writers out of context is always hilarious]