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Fwd: hi!

From: Brianna Segura
Subject: Fwd: hi!
Date: Sat, 16 Dec 2006 16:39:03 -0500
User-agent: SmartMailer Version 1.56 -German Privat License-

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"In fact,»the gipsy who was not a gipsy observed, "I think she is here now. "The stuff,»he said, coughing. He closed his eyes and saw Annie removing the jack and squeezing Elmer's Glue into the hole in the module. Again she bent over to check whatever it was she had at the foot of the bed; again he heard a faint dull clunk/clank, wood thumping against some metallic object, and then she turned back, brushing absently at her hair again. That sun had heat as well as brilliance — he could feel it on his face and hands as he sat here. and if her hands slipped up his legs as she climbed the stairs, she was going to grab, more than a handful of his skinny ass. A look of sincere concentration was good because it flattered them, and when editors were flattered, they would sometimes give in on some of their mad ideas."Don't let your eyes waver. Never. "Does the name Miss Evelyn-Hyde mean anything to you? ""Oh. ""No.

His face was the face of a man either trying to pass a kidney stone or having a terrible gas attack. She recoiled from him in surprise and unease, the last of that blackness going out of her face, and all that was left was that weird little-girl look, that I've-been-naughty look. He meant to get out if he could rain or no rain; this was his chance and this time he meant to take it. He realized he was seeing her with all her masks put aside — this was the real Annie, the inside Annie. Now the bees covered her in a thick and moving blanket; her eyes, open but unseeing, seemed to be receding into a living cave of crawling, stumbling, droning bees. "She waved a hand at him impatiently, and he understood it would be better — today, at least — not to interrupt her. The spray of dried flowers on the coffee-table had overturned; beneath the table, barely visible, lay a dish of crusted custard pudding and a large book. I killed her because I got tired of seeing her soul-kissing her boyfriend on the couch, him with his hand shoved so far up her skirt he looked like he was prospecting for gold. "I'm going to stick a note through one of the links in the fence,»she said slowly, re-gathering her thoughts. He had collected four of her bobby-pins as assiduously as a squirrel collects nuts for the winter, and had secreted them under his mattress along with the pills. Her eyes began to dart aimlessly around as they had when it seemed that the fire of his burning book might get out of control. He halted, stared at the five that were left encased in their mutilated cellophane sheet, and gobbled a fourth. He could see the barnacles which encrusted them, could see pale drowned things lying limply in the clefts of the wood. Tenant complaints had resulted in a warning from building inspectors the year before. "I made you that nice sundae and the least you could do is tell me a few things. He hoped, he said, that the doctor would prescribe a sleeping powder for Ian, who really did seem quite ill. "She suddenly leaped at him with that limber ferocity, and although he felt certain she meant to hurt him as she had before, possibly because she couldn't get at the dirty birdie of a scriptwriter who had cheated Rocket Man out of the Hudson before it went over the cliff, he did not move at all — he could see the seeds of her current instability in the window of past she had just opened for him, but he was also awed by it — the injustice she felt was, in spite of its childishness, completely, inarguably real. There was a calf, and a thigh, and then a sickening bunch in the middle that looked like a salt-dome. And when that's done, I believe I'll see if I can do anything about getting the fuck out of here, Annie. When he saw the mower bearing down on him he rolled over on his back and dug frantically at the driveway dirt with his heels, trying to push himself under the cruiser where she couldn't get him. Paul got the lighter fluid and rolled across to the spot by the window where his informal little writer's camp was pitched: here was the typewriter with the three missing teeth in its unpleasant grin, here the wastebasket, here the pencils and pads and typing paper and piles of scrap-rewrite, some of which he would use and some of which would go into the wastebasket. If they went back into the workplace, they made buying a VCR a top priority so they could watch those same soap operas at night.

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