• “Sit, Khải, you look bad.” She directed him to a stone bench that overlooked the water. He sat, and she brushed the hair from his clammy forehead with cool, soft fingers. “You need water.”
    When she tried to pull away, he wrapped his arms around her waist and held her close. “Don’t go.”
    “Okay,” she said, and she urged him to rest his cheek against her chest. Her fingers smoothed through his hair and along his scruffy jaw.
    He breathed her in. She smelled slightly different than she used to, like she’d changed laundry detergents, but he found the comforting feminine scent underneath it all. Her scent. The scent of woman and clean skin and Esme.
    The ash of incense slowly faded from his senses, and he let everything slip away but her. The sick feeling receded. He could breathe again. People began to walk by, a few at first, but gradually more. Still, he didn’t let her go. He needed her touch, her smell, the steady beating of her heart, her.
    “Mỹ,” his mom said, making Esme stiffen against him. “Come help me with—oh, never mind. I’ll have Quân help me.” His mom’s footsteps quickly retreated.
    Esme ran her fingers through his hair before asking, “We have eggrolls here. Want some?”
    “Not hungry.” It would take something catastrophic to lure him away from her right now. He was like a wounded beast who’d found a respite from the pain of his injuries. “Unless you want them?”
    She laughed a little. “No, I ate too many already.” She brushed her fingers across his scratchy cheek.
    He hadn’t thought he’d ever have this again, and he let his eyelids fall shut as he soaked up her touch. She was better than sunlight and fresh air.
    Time passed, he didn’t know how much, and his mom came back and said, “You two should go. Khải, take Mỹ home for me, ha?”
    “Cô, I can help clean up.” Esme pulled away from him, and he bit back a protest. He wanted to grab her arms and wrap her back around him like a scarf. “There are a lot of containers and—”
    “No, no, no, it’s all taken care of. People are leaving now. Go home,” his mom said, waving dismissively at them. “You’ll drive her, ha, Khải?”
    Esme’s mouth opened like she wanted to speak, and he quickly said, “Yeah, I’ll do it.”
    “Good, good.” His mom hurried away.
    He got up from the bench and took a deep breath. His head pulsed, but he hadn’t felt this good in days. “Let’s go, then.”
    “Are you better? We can wait,” she said.
    “Yeah, I’m better.” A bit achy and bruised inside, but improved. Pretty much the way he felt when he’d been sick for days and his fever finally broke. Except he’d never spiked a fever.
    As they walked to his car, he was intensely conscious of the respectful distance between them. She kept her fingers laced together, and the set of her shoulders was tense as she focused on the path ahead. Just two weeks ago, they would have held hands. Just two weeks ago, she’d been in love with him.
    Was two weeks enough time to fall out of love with someone?
    It made him a greedy bastard, but he wanted her love. He wanted to be her “one,” the recipient of her smiles, the reason for her smiles, her drug. She was his.
  • Over the roar of the motorcycle engine, she heard him shout, “Stop. Get off. Get off right now.”
    Her heart jumped into her throat, and her mouth went cotton dry. Was it the police? What kind of trouble could she be in? She slowed down and pulled over next to the center divide like he’d done.
    He sprinted toward her. “Get off the bike. Hurry.”
    As soon as he came close enough for her to register the terror on his usually calm face, she started shaking. There had to be something wrong with the motorcycle. Was it going to explode?
    She worked at the kickstand with a trembling foot, but before she’d managed to prop the bike up, Khải grabbed her by her upper arms and manually lifted her off the seat. The motorcycle crashed to its side, sending her things all over the rocks and scraggly grass.
    His hair stood up in wild patches, and his face was a mask of fury. She’d never imagined he could be this angry. Without pausing to take breaths, he said, “Why did you take the bike why did you ride it I never said you could ride it.”
    Her shaking worsened to the point where she couldn’t move. “S-sorry. I just went—”
    He steered her across the grass toward his car. “Let’s go.”
    “But I bought food. It fell all over. And the motorcycle. Someone will take it. I’ll bring it back—”
    “Stay. Away. From. It,” he bit out.
    Once she got into the car, he yanked the seat belt over her and buckled it, giving it a hard tug to make sure it was tight.
    She threw her hands up in the air and followed him. “Why are you doing this? I’m not done.” She still had a lot of gutter left to clean, and she hated leaving a job unfinished. Without thinking, she grabbed his shoulder and said, “Anh Khải, put it back—”
    He whipped around instantly and wrapped an arm across his chest so he could rub at the shoulder she’d touched. “You have to stop all of this.”
    “I’ll finish later, then, but—”
    “No, there won’t be any finishing. You. Have. To. Stop. Do you understand? You. Have. To. Stop.”
    Her bottom lip trembled at his slow, exaggerated pronunciation. “You don’t need to speak like that. I understand you.”
    He made a frustrated sound. “You don’t. You’ve been reorganizing my stuff in ridiculous ways, cutting down trees with a meat cleaver, touching that motorcycle, touching me. It all has to stop. I can’t live this way.”
    When his meaning sank in, Esme’s shoulders drooped. “Ridiculous?” she repeated in English. That didn’t sound good.
    He clawed both hands through his hair. “Yes.”
    She looked at the half-cleared lawn and wiped her dirty hands on her pants as her heart shrank and her face flamed. Ridiculous. If she were classier, she’d know what that meant. Now that she thought about it, it probably wasn’t very classy for her to do yard work or clean his house or any of this stuff. Esme in Accounting probably hired people to do this work. But the real Esme, the country girl Mỹ who always smelled like fish sauce, just wanted to be useful. She hadn’t thought about how it looked.
    Had she been embarrassing him and herself all this time?
    “I’ll stop,” she made herself say.
    “Really?” he asked, sounding so hopeful it made her pride smart even more.
    She nodded. “I promise I’ll stop now.” She would have shaken hands on it, but he’d included touching him in the list of things that had to stop. She wiped her palms on her pants again, but something told her the thing that disgusted him wasn’t something she could wash away.
  • His name, Khải, meant victory, but the way he said it, flat like that without the accent, it meant to open. That was exactly what she needed to do. He was closed, and she had to open him. In her experience, when you wanted to open something, you cleaned it up first so you could see what you were dealing with, and then you worked on it really hard. Esme wasn’t great at a lot of things, but she was good at cleaning and working hard. She could do this. Maybe she’d been made for this.
    She’d start by straightening Khải’s yard. Then she’d move on to his house. Last, his life. He’d said he wasn’t unhappy with anything, but that was a lie if she’d ever heard one. For whatever reason, he’d built a thick wall around himself. She was going to knock it down just like she’d taken down that tree and work her way into his heart.
  • 127 syf.
    ·3 günde·1/10
    #virginiaWoolf #aRoomofOnesOwn #ithakiyayinlari #nilayöztürk #bookstagram
    Once I don’ t like cliches of Virginia Woolf and then I have no patience to read her anymore. Because of too much dispersed ideas which can be seen for me more as too much word for nothing special, interesting, or different. All are quite clear and can be thought by kids also, whereas she is always sure about the talks as if best of the bests up till now; so she irritates me. Being ordinary is good, but reflecting yourself also more than who you are, is something not for me to read or watch.

    Being writer and isolating yourself from life arent cool things. Also art is cool, but people who are busy with any sort of art just to pose as if “elite of bourgeois” are loosers.

    She owned a room once and she was lucky because she didnt have to work. She got an inheritance and she liked easy money also. She wasnt able to cook that’ s why she hired cook, she had gardener, waitresses etc. soon and she intended to a novelist. She means automatically feminism should be liberation but just for some women who aren’ t poor but reflecting this as intellectuals instead of rich women.

    I hate the classes she labels on ladies and I also disgust how rude she was to the servants. Maybe after learning empathy, she should have dared to be a novelist.

    She reminds me some extreme Kurdish Feminism Account on twitter. They are also same. They never protest bride price, bride exchange traditions, honour killing, child brides or pre arranged marriages which are very common for societies feudal, but they keep to complain unless men should sit decent in public transportations; women are victims of them or calling a şady as “girl” very bad but “woman” is a word almost blessed.
  • Sometimes
    You’ll just be too much woman.
    Too smart,
    Too beautiful,
    Too strong.
    Too much of something
    That makes a man feel like less of a man,
    Which will start making you feel like you have to be less of a
    The biggest mistake you can make
    Is removing jewels from your crown
    To make it easier for a man to carry.
    When this happens, I need you to understand,
    You do not need a smaller crown –
    You need a man with bigger hands.

    Michael REID

  • I turn toward my guy when the door closes. “I guess this is goodnight.” My shoulder lifts into a half shrug.
    Bodhi inspects me with a restrained smirk. “Guess so.”
    We lean against opposite walls of the elevator with the sexual tension so thick it’s hard to breathe. I’m on the fifth floor. He’s on the third, so it stops on his floor first. The door opens.
    “Nighty night.” I grin.
    His eyebrows lift into a slight challenge. “Night.” He steps out of the elevator.
    I let it go up to my floor then I push the button to the third floor again. Why? Why doesn’t he insist we have a goodnight kiss or something like … sex!? He plays me better than I play him. I suck at cool. I just want him. Period.
    When the door opens, he’s standing right there, waiting for me. “Jerk.” I grin.
    Bodhi pulls me out of the elevator and tosses me over his shoulder. “Tease.” He smacks my ass and carries me to room 312.
    This moment. This is life.
    Jewel E. Ann
    Sayfa 194 - aslında burayı da not kısmına ekleyecektim ama sürekli görmek ve belki de o kadar gözyaşı döktükten sonra beni gülümseten bu sahneyi unutmamak için ekliyorum..