“All sixteen mentioned her jutting ribs, the insubstantiality of her thighs, and one, who went up to the roof with Lux during a warm winter rain, told us how the basins of her collarbones collected water.”

Jeffrey Eugenides

Jeffrey Eugenides - “All sixteen mentioned her jutting...” 1

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“You’re killing me," he told her, panting, his palms sliding down over her ribs to explore the rest of her shape—her waist, her hips, her thighs. "Killing me by inches." He lifted his body from hers enough to yank up her skirt. "But it’s a damn fine way for a man to die.”

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“I am running through a snowfall which is her thighs, he dramatized in purple. Her thighs are filling up the street. Wide as a snowfall, heavy as huge falling Zeppelins, her damp thighs are settling on the sharp roofs and wooden balconies. Weather-vanes press the shape of roosters and sail-boats into the skin. The faces of famous statues are preserved like intaglios....”

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“She lay on her back and walked her fingers down her ribs, skipped them over her abdomen, and landed on her pelvic bones. She tapped them with her Knuckles. [. . .] I can hear my bones, she thought. Her fingers moved up from her pelvic bones to her waist. The elastic of her underpants barely touched the center of her abdomen. The bridge is almost finished, she thought. The elastic hung loosely around each thigh. More progress. She put her knees together and raised them in the air. No matter how tightly she pressed them together, her thighs did not touch.”

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“He leaned forward to rub his lips against her collarbone, up her throat, his lips soft, dry, his stubble adding just enough roughness to arouse. She inclined her head, offering, inviting, pleading. He gripped the back of her thighs, pulling her closer, his hands on her ass as he thrust into her, meeting her rhythm, finding their rhythm, the one they’d always been so good at. His hands were familiar on her skin, knew just where to touch. The cadence of his breathing, the taste of his mouth, all brought back how good they’d been together.”

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