Thomas Kinkade venice painting

Thomas Kinkade venice paintingThomas Kinkade New York 5th Avenue painting
once a month, Alma Jr. a shy seventeen-year-old with his beanpole length, Francine a little live wire. Jack slid his cold hand between Ennis’s legs, said he was worried about his boy who was, no doubt about it, dyslexic or something, couldn’t get anything right, fifteen years old and couldn’t hardly read, he could see it though goddamn Lureen wouldn’t admit to it and pretended the kid was o.k., refused to get any bitchin kind a help about it. He didn’t know what the f*ck the answer was. Lureen had the money and called the shots. “I used a want a boy for a kid,” said Ennis, undoing buttons, “but just got little girls.”
“I didn’t want none a either kind,” said Jack. “But f*ck-all has worked the way I wanted. Nothin never come to my hand the right way.” Without getting up he threw deadwood on the fire, the sparks flying up with their truths and lies, a few hot points of fire landing on their hands and faces, not for the first time, and they rolled down into the dirt. One thing never changed: the brilliant charge of their infrequent couplings was darkened by the sense of time flying, never enough time, never enough.
A day or two later in the trailhead parking lot, horses loaded into the trailer, Ennis was ready to head