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The way her knees pressed against the velvet of the seat, she looked like a prayer someone forgot to finish saying.
I watched the sweat track a path between your breasts like a river cutting through a valley I hadn't yet mapped.
"You looked at that glass of Petit Verdot like you were trying to find a reason to sue the winemaker, then drank it anyway."
She didn't look like a woman who waited for things, but there she was, dissecting a lemon peel with surgical focus.
His hand was on my hip, his thumb hooked into my belt loop like he was anchoring himself against a gale-force wind.
The draft from the floorboards was a minor line item compared to the sheer thermal output of his mouth against her inner thigh.
Her skin tasted like the sea, which was a lie, because we were in the middle of the Tuscan hills, miles from any coast.
His thumb was hooked in my belt loop, dragging the denim just low enough to let the draft hit my hip bone.
He didn’t just occupy space in the bar; he seemed to be the reason the room was holding its breath at all.
I watched you swirl that Cabernet and realized I didn't want the wine; I wanted the ghost of it on your breath.
You're watching the condensation slide down your glass, wondering if the humidity in this valley is personal or just seasonal.
You looked like a problem in that vintage university sweatshirt, specifically the kind of problem I’ve spent ten years trying to solve.