The Cleary's waitresses were wearing Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil T-shirts.
Two men wearing similar clothespressed jeans, T-shirts, white running shoes, and sunglasseswalked up and took benches closer to the water.
She was wearing a tight T-shirt and shorts, apparently unaware of the effect her body had on me as she told me about her parents and her friends on the island.
She wore a caramel colored T-shirt that showed a black elongated figure above the name "Caffe Ladro."
He had a latte and a bagel in the Caffe Ladro and bought a T-shirt.
The woman he'd seen in Seattle was standing a few feet away, looking at his T-shirt.
Joe lay back with his head on his shoes and admired her breasts, high and shapely beneath a gray T-shirt.
"Want to go?" Rhiannon looked down at her black cotton pants and touched her T-shirt.
She pulled off her T-shirt and walked into the bathroom where she regarded herself in the mirror before getting into the shower.
He forgot about them when Sue pulled her T-shirt up over her head and stepped out of her jeans and underwear.
An hour later, she brushed her hair and put on a slinky black T-shirt.
Love that T-shirt."
She put her hands on his chest, feeling his nipples through his T-shirt.
She was tanned, wearing a large white "Harbor Fish" T-shirt over dark brown cotton pants.
He bought a mulberry colored T-shirt to wear under the jacket.
She was wearing a Red Sox T-shirt and a wrap-around cotton skirt.
That T-shirt isn't going to make you any friends.
Two heavyset men wearing shorts, T-shirts, and baseball caps were easing a boulder from the truck bed onto an impromptu ramp of two-by-sixes.
She had changed into dark brown cotton pants, a cream colored T-shirt, and a red plaid flannel shirt, unbuttoned.
They were just right, hanging and swelling under her T-shirt; they were perfect for his mouth, like pears, but so much better.
[GEEK HIERARCHY], furry slash fiction [GEEK HIERARCHY DETAIL], poetry, translations, t-shirts, you name it, with two provisos: that one, you have to allow everyone else to rip, mix and burn your creations in the same way you're hacking mine; and on the other hand, you've got to do it noncommercially.
In a red T-shirt and bermudas, with a red ribbon around his head and a glass of feni in hand, a wobbly Rajan Narayan with bleary eyes was quite a spectacle.
He had told me, up there in the haze of one Porvorim afternoon, how he had been amused to read that "Goans are largely a T-shirt wearing population".
"One wonders," he wrote later, "if to be wholly Indian one has to chew 'paan' and spit it all around, or replace T-shirts or G-shorts with kurta-pajama or safari suit.