Nice All Car Games For Girls photos

Check out these all car games for girls images today:

Image by wakingphotolife:
Maurice is up already in the kitchen with a pack of cold cuts, bread, lettuce and cheese laid out on the counter. Earlier, I watched the silver Cadillac truck leave from my bedroom window while putting on my boots, jeans and hoodie.

One of his girls had been over, I don't know which one. I track them by the cars that park and leave from the driveway when I get up for work at around 11. Tonight was the silver Cadillac; Dawn or Jenny, whichever one that drives a silver car. Hearing my footsteps, Maurice looks over his shoulder with the butter knife still in hand. "You going to work man?"
"Yeah."
"Right on. Right on. We all do what we got to do."
He dips the knife back into the Country Crock and smears it on a piece of toasted bread. I could smell the burnt edges from down the hall. "Help yourself to some breakfast," he says. And I do.

I've been staying with Maurice for the last two weeks. From living with the girlfriend, I try not to think of her as the ex because I don't want to, not ready yet, to here. I put my glasses on the table and rub two fingers against my temple like I'm trying to project something out of me. Maurice and I went to state together. We were best friends.

I don't mind working nights. It's not a natural phenomena, humans aren't made to be nocturnal, but I like the quietness. I don't see anyone on the streets. No one bothers me. No one calls me. I'm a ghost in the world. I lift the boxes and palettes like a poltergeist.

When I get out at six in the morning, Joan is waiting at her house a few miles from the shopping mall. I park my car down the block and wait for the blue Acura to turn the corner. I text her; the bedroom blinds go up. Joan never comes to the door. She leaves it unlocked for me and I let myself in and smell the coffee, Seattle's Best, the good stuff. She always has it. Her boyfriend buys all the good things for her.

Joan is sitting in a robe with her ankles crossed. I glimpse a black bra and jersey pajama pants in the slit. She always wears the same thing in the morning, more or less. Today the pants have rein-deers all over them but I don't make fun of her even though I want to. What is it, Christmas? Should I have come wrapped in a ribbon? Nah, how about a bow tie, she'd say. You're the only woman I'd wear a bow tie for.

"How was work?" she says. She is standing by the open window and taps her cigarette on the sill. The ashes fall into the alley next to the air conditioning unit. I look outside. It's April now, the light comes earlier in the morning. Sitting on a stool with her chin on her palm and her fingers curled against her cheek, she’d break any man.

Maurice and the boys love to talk shit about me and Joan. "That white hipster chick with the Elvis Presley glasses." Maurice says while we're watching Mavericks on TV. We're all buzzed with fat boys of King Cobra in our fist.
"It's Costello man."
"Whatever. All the same. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be out making beautiful hand-made things?"
"Fuck you dude," I say to Maurice.
When someone brings up the girlfriend, the room goes quiet. Maurice turns the volume up on the game and things are alright after a few seconds. I get some looks: she ain't worth it man, that Korean bitch ain’t good for you. Man up. The boys say. They always got my back.

"Work was great." I drag a second stool from the nook and set it down next to her. I sit with my back against the wall, away from the windows. I'm smiling at her. That kind of crooked smile that lets her know how was work. She looks over the top edge of her thick black glasses: now you're here and I' ve been waiting for you. How was work?

"You done with that? Let's go to the bedroom." I watch the last embers burn down between her fingers.
"Not the bedroom. We just had that there this morning."
"I see. You know I don't really care."
I've abandoned a lot of myself.
"I know baby but I do. We can stay in the living room today."

Joan is thinner than I remembered. I brace my hands against her sides and feel the ribs under the joints of my fingers. It's my first time back since a month ago. Back then, I was still with the girlfriend. "I don't think you should come here anymore," Joan had said.
"Why?"
"You make me feel like I'm a bad person."
I peeled myself off the bed, went into the kitchen and made her a sandwich. I served it on a coffee saucer and a glass of milk on the side. "It comes with a hard-boiled egg, just like how you like it."
"Thanks." She ate the sandwich and we sat with our backs against the headboard while watching the sun rise outside the window. "It's not that I don't want you but it ain't right, right now."
"Don't even think about it. I won't be a stranger no matter what," I said.
"I'm sorry."
I miss one of the slots on my jeans as I'm putting my belt on. She never called me by name.
"Where you going?" she said.
"Going home to sleep."

I slide my hand down the insides of her pajama pants. She's warm and my hand's dry. Later, I close my eyes and think of a desert oasis in front of me. Palm trees, sand, shade, clear water. When I feel her body rise up from the cushions, I put my hand against her stomach and slow down. Now I'm on a boat in Alaska cutting through fjord glaciers.

My mind's always thinking of some kind of shit when I'm with Joan. A couple months back, maybe Christmas or New Years, I bought her a card. To keep it from being bent inside my bag, I slid it in my journal and set it on the kitchen table. She had a look in it when I was sleeping. "Stevie, I read your journal. I didn't know you write."
I woke up and looked at her in my blurry vision then at the clock; it was only nine. Good.
"Naw, it's just bullshit really." I put my hand out.
"I'm not giving it back yet," she said.
I felt embarrassed, but what did I have to lose.
"I like it," she said.

I'm sitting on the sofa watching the morning news. Joan's head is set across my thighs and I'm stroking her hair while hearing about flood damage in the southwest. "Stevie," she says.

No one calls me Stevie. It's always Steve, Steven. My family calls me by my Chinese name.

Only her. It makes me feel like I'm a new man. I'm hers. The e gives her proprietorship. "What are you going to do today Stevie?"
"Probably go back and sleep until dinner."
"You should. You look tired."
"Well, obviously," I say.
"No. Not that," she says.

She takes the remote from my hand, the boyfriend's remote, and turns the TV off. The anchors disappear mid-sentence. She takes my glasses off and traces the crescents that have accumulated there then stops.
"What’s wrong?"
"Nothing," I say.

Growing up in Spokane


Image by bunkadoo
The area where I spent most of my time growing up.

Tags:Games, girls, Nice, photos