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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 a frantic, irregular rhythm in my neck, a physiological betrayal of the clinical indifference I’d spent six years perfecting.
My billable hour is four hundred and fifty dollars, yet I’m standing in a basement in Pienza letting a man tell me I’m incompetent.
He tasted like expensive Scotch and the kind of trouble that gets you disbarred, but I didn't care about my license just then.
The wine wasn't the catalyst; it was the way Julian looked at Ben looking at me, a silent permission for the world to tilt.
You leaned over the workstation, your forearms dusted with 00 flour, and I realized then that you enjoyed being corrected.
I could see your pulse in your throat, a frantic little bird trapped under the skin, while you discussed the charcoal's grit.
You were the only thing in that humidity that didn't feel like a lie, even though I knew your skin was a curated illusion.
The air conditioning in the Bergamot Station gallery was set to sixty-two degrees, yet the back of my neck was slick with sweat.
He adjusted the key light, the barn doors casting a trapezoid of shadow across her ribs that looked like a bruised wing.
The air at nine thousand feet tastes like cold iron and pine needles, but his skin tasted like salt and expensive bourbon.