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He had that same proprietary tilt to his chin, looking like a retraction waiting to happen—polished on the surface, but messy if you checked the sources.
He tasted like woodsmoke and expensive ego, and I realized right then that my therapist was going to have a very long Monday.
She was the high priestess of deprivation, and I was a man who lived and died by the grace of butter and bourbon.
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.
You looked like a man who had just lost a multi-million dollar account, or perhaps found something much more interesting in the stairwell.
The mahogany desk was cold against her thighs, a stark contrast to the internal temperature spike recorded at twenty-one hundred hours.
My pulse was doing the same frantic dance it did during the 2008 Lehman collapse, all high-stakes panic and impending ruin.
The humidity in Tulum was a physical weight, like a bad quarterly projection, and you were standing by the mezcal bar looking like a liability.
He tasted like expensive Scotch and the kind of trouble that gets you disbarred, but I didn't care about my license just then.
I watched the way his thumb tracked the rim of the glass, like he was looking for a flaw in my packaging before the pitch.
The humidity in the barrel room was exactly seventy-two percent, perfect for aging oak and the way her sweat didn't evaporate.
You didn't breathe like the others; you didn't even sweat, despite the brutal elevation and the humid weight of the Berkshire pines.