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You look at me over the top of her head, your jaw tight as a bowstring, and I know I’m not supposed to be here.
The humidity in the Berkshires during August doesn’t just sit on you; it negotiates with your dignity until you’re both translucent.
The neck of the Gibson felt like a stranger's hand, cold and unyielding, while she stood by the oak vats and watched him bleed through a ballad.
The legal implications were clear, but the way his thumb traced the line of my jaw was an unarguable counter-brief.
The humidity in the ballroom was a physical weight, pressing the scent of expensive gin and industrial floor wax into the back of his throat.
!["You’re Smirking Into Your Gin Again"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you’re-smirking-into-your-gin-again"-364-cover-1783987240275.jpg)
I looked at the phone in my clutch, the screen a tiny white sun against the charcoal walls of the gallery.
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.
She looked at me across the crowded alumni tent, her smile a footnote to a story we hadn’t finished writing ten years ago.
He looked at her and felt the same bone-deep rattle you get when you’re too close to a controlled detonation.
The air conditioning in the gallery hummed like a low-budget horror score, a cold, mechanical buzz that did nothing to chill the sweat pooling at the base of my spine.
I knew I was over the line the second I saw her in that white dress, looking like a target I wasn't allowed to hit.
He looked at me like I was a failing campaign he was personally assigned to turn around with a massive budget and no oversight.