He was deeply in love. When she spoke, he thought he heard bells, as if she were a garbage truck backing up.
It was an American tradition, like fathers chasing kids around with power tools.
The ballerina rose gracefully en Pointe and extended one slender leg behind her, like a dog at a fire hydrant.
He was as lame as a duck. Not the metaphorical lame duck, either, but a real duck that was actually lame, maybe from stepping on a land mine or something.
The young fighter had a hungry look, the kind you get from not eating for a while.
The plan was simple, like my brother-in-law Phil. But unlike Phil, this plan just might work.
Even in his last years, Granddad had a mind like a steel trap, only one that had been left out so long it had rusted shut.
He fell for her like his heart was a mob informant, and she was the East River.
The hailstones leaped from the pavement, just like maggots when you fry them in hot grease.
Her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever.
She had a deep, throaty, genuine laugh, like that sound a dog makes just before it throws up.
She grew on him like she was a colony of E. Coli, and he was room-temperature Canadian beef.
He spoke with the wisdom that can only come from experience, like a guy who went blind because he looked at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it and now goes around the country speaking at high schools about the dangers of looking at a solar eclipse without one of those boxes with a pinhole in it.
His thoughts tumbled in his head, making and breaking alliances like underpants in a dryer without Cling Free.
Her face was a perfect oval, like a circle that had its two sides gently compressed by a ThighMaster.
hier erschnorchelt
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