“Truth had run through my fingers. Every drop had escaped.”

“If instead of having ten fingers, I had ten combs for fingers, I'd love to meet Donald Trump, just so I could run my fingers through his hair.”

“I eat spaghetti with my fingers, because it reminds me of me running my fingers through her wet red hair. Ah, but that’s life, no?”

“There was no air; only the dead, still night fired by the dog days of August. Not a breath. I had to suck in the same air I exhaled, cupping it in my hands before it escaped. I felt it, in and out, less each time…until it was so thin it slipped through my fingers forever. I mean, forever.”

“But now that she was my apprentice, every such thought caused a guilty twitch in my neck, as if someone had dropped a sleek, stinky ferret there. Guilt ferrets are bastards.”

“It was my first big chance, but here I was, sitting back and letting it run through my fingers like so much water.”