First Encounters
New experiences, chance meetings, discovering passion
23 stories
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Brutal Grace
The weight of the mountain air was nothing compared to the way his hand felt against the small of my back, searing through the spandex.
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"You're Holding Your Glass Like a Shield"
I remember the way the condensation from her gin glass tracked a slow, clear line through the fine dust on her knuckles.
Studio 4B
He adjusted the softbox like he was clearing a jam on a rifle, steady and focused, and my pulse just jumped the track.
The Half-Empty Highball on the Pedestal
The air conditioning in the Bergamot Station gallery was set to sixty-two degrees, yet the back of my neck was slick with sweat.
—besides, the eucalyptus was making me dizzy anyway
His hands were seasoned—there’s no other word for it—heavy with a confidence that made my skin feel like it was humming.
At Least the Air Was Thin
His hand on my hip was firm, less like a polite gesture and more like he was claiming a specific piece of real estate.
October 14th, 4:32 PM
Her mouth tasted like the heavy, dark silt of a riverbed after a flood, all iron and fermented sugar and something dangerously clean.
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"I Bet You Say That to All the Clerks"
The way you leaned against the shelf was as deliberate as a lawyer in a Savannah courtroom, all sharp angles and unearned confidence.
She Never Liked the Flash
Her skin had the texture of a well-worn Manduka mat—grippy, warm, and resilient—against the cold industrial concrete of the studio floor.
Static
Your thumb brushes the pulse point at my wrist, and suddenly the breath I’ve spent a decade mastering simply deserts me.
Bungalow Seventeen
I watched the salt crystals dry against the hair on your forearm, a white crust of everything I wanted to taste.
Two Fingerprints on the Glass
The friction of your thumb against the inside of my wrist was more disruptive than the forty-thousand dollar canvas hanging to our left.