By Joanne Fedler
Faith used to consider falling in love, yet that was once decades in the past. As a counselor in a women's drawback middle, she's heard one too many love-gone-wrong tales, so it truly is not easy for her to not quit at the great issues, like love, desire, and trust—let on my own the opportunity of having an honest haircut or assembly a midway general man. Then one evening, a strange accident unearths religion in a scenario that transforms her lifestyles, bringing her to eventually comprehend what she has constantly had to recognize: that earlier than it can save you others, you want to store yourself. This fantastically written, big-hearted love tale will resonate with any lady who has considered giving up on love and desire, yet chooses no longer to.
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Extra resources for Things without a Name
I nod. ’ I nod again. ’ ‘Don’t abuse this friendship,’ I say. Carol leans against the water cooler. ‘I heard about the scissors,’ she says. I nod. ’ ‘U-huh. Two tiny ones . ’ ‘D’you reckon you could use a pair of scissors again once you knew your mother had been . ’ I snap. ‘Maybe there is life after scissors . . ’ Carol says, gesturing with both hands. ’ I shrug. Miserably. ‘I wore it last week to work . . ’ ‘It’ll turn up. ’ ‘We’re doing the happy-family-goes-out-to-a-really-expensiverestaurant-thing tonight, my mother’s birthday.
I shrug. Miserably. ‘I wore it last week to work . . ’ ‘It’ll turn up. ’ ‘We’re doing the happy-family-goes-out-to-a-really-expensiverestaurant-thing tonight, my mother’s birthday. ’ ‘I need to get laid later,’ she whispers conspiratorially. ’ ‘Thanks for the update,’ I say. ‘Anyone with a dick will do, at this point. ’ As I say this, Shaun Hamilton walks into reception. ‘Mmm . ’ Carol says to me. ‘I’d rather fuck a pit bull with syphilis and a cactus for a cock,’ I say to her. ’ *** 48 TWAN 8/5/08 2:41 PM Page 49 THINGS WITHOUT A NAME Some things do not excite me.
Priscilla doesn’t want to leave me. ‘I’m going to get on the phone and speak to the police officer in charge, to make sure that they move on arresting him,’ I say to her. This only brings on a renewed shudder of sobs from Priscilla. ‘He must die,’ she says to me. Another thing about grief—it is alarmingly vengeful. I nod. ‘He . . he . . must definitely be brought to account for this . ’ I open the door. She makes no move to go. ‘I will kill him with my own two hands,’ she whispers. ‘Please don’t,’ I offer.