Quotes About Anticipation

And probably Sunday evenings too.

She thought for one moment that he was going to kiss her and longed for the touch of his lips.

She longed for it and dreaded it.

He could no longer prolong the sweet agony.

In a few more days, Christina thought . . . this would all be over . . . She would try to recall how he had looked, how he had sounded, what he had said. He would be gone.

She was beginning to feel a sense of release, a hope that happiness still lay ahead of her.

He hovered at the edge of a kiss, just as a few nights before he had hovered . . .

He had come. It had been somehow inevitable.

What is going to happen between you and me in that time? Are we going to do what we both want to do?

What was the point of waiting for a more pleasant post? There was no such thing as pleasure in life for her anymore.

It was a development that she had desired for a long time. But now surely was the wrong time for it to happen.

there was many a slip twixt cup and lip.

Of course she wished to go. How dreadful it would be not to be there but to be wondering every moment what was happening, imagining with whom he was walking and talking.

She wished that somewhere in her future there could be a man who would make the world an exciting place in which to live.

In one way . . . living in a cocoon was preferable to stepping out into a larger, brighter, freer world. There was light and joy in this world—she seemed to have lived more intensely in the past week than she had done in all her life before. But there was the anticipation of pain too. The house was going to feel quite unbearably empty . . . . Her life was going to be unbearably empty. But then cocoons were not necessarily warm, comforting places either.

If Piers was much longer, she would throttle him. If he failed altogether to put in an appearance, she would borrow a dueling pistol and shoot him.

It was a seductive idea that he might not come until tomorrow after all, but on the whole she hoped he would come today so that this waiting, this suspense, might be at an end.

When the bet is placed, he said, a moment is carved away from the past and the future. In that enchanted moment, anything is possible. A man's debts and regrets and limitations disappear. He is buyin' the chance to imagine - for one moment at a time - that th enext card I deal will make him rich.

Tomorrow! How sweet its prospects for a drunkard the night before. There is no better word. Before the earth hurls itself into sunshine, nothing is not possible.

Little Crazy Love Song" I don't want eventual, I want soon. It's 5 a.m. It's noon. It's dusk falling to dark. I listen to music. I eat up a few wild poems while time creeps along as though it's got all day. This is what I have. The dull hangover of waiting, the blush of my heart on the damp grass, the flower-faced moon. A gull broods on the shore where a moment ago there were two. Softly my right hand fondles my left hand as though it were you.

I was waiting for you on the beach when Kathleen came along and invited me to go for a swim with her.

I have a list of party guests in my desk drawer that dates from around 1997. Every so often I take it out and add the people we've met, cross off the couples that have moved away, and then put it back in my drawer. I long ago came to accept that we're never actually going to have this party; we're just going to keep updating the list—which, for people like me, is a party all by itself.

What I still can't hear, after all these years, is the specific tip of the hat Steve hid in a countermelody in the title song: "Hank and Mary get into town tomorrow.

I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be in formed of the secret with which I am acquainted. That cannot be.