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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.
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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.
His hand is a heavy weight against my throat, not squeezing yet, just a binding clause I haven't figured out how to litigate.
I remember the way the spine of that first edition cracked, a sound like a dry branch snapping under the weight of August humidity.
Your thumb brushes the pulse point at my wrist, and suddenly the breath I’ve spent a decade mastering simply deserts me.
He tasted of brined olives and the sharp, citric heat of the galley, his thumbs pinning my wrists against the cold stainless steel.