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He tasted like a four-hundred-dollar bottle of Scotch and the kind of career-ending decision that looks spectacular in the right lighting.
He had her pinned against the cool, damp concrete of the fermentation vat, the smell of yeast and heavy fruit thick enough to choke on.
Her spine had that neutral, dangerous curve of a loaded spring, and the way her husband watched me watch her made the wine in my throat turn to liquid lead.
The way you handled that laser pointer during the afternoon breakout session should be illegal in at least forty-seven states.
!["You’re Bleeding Interest Every Second You Stand Over There"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you’re-bleeding-interest-every-second-you-stand-over-there"-626-cover-1785758450101.jpg)
I watched the condensation on her glass track a slow, deliberate path down her thumb, mirroring the way my focus descended.
I watched your thumb trace the spine of that paperback with a deliberate pressure that made me wonder how you’d handle a living thing.
Maya didn't flinch when he cinched the paper band, the adhesive sticking to the fine, pale hairs of her wrist.
He gripped the back of her neck, his thumb tracing the frantic beat of her pulse against the vineyard’s humid twilight.
The leather of my raptor mask smelled of tanning oils and the salt of my own breath, trapped against my lips.
I watched the flour settle in the fine hairs of your forearms, a dusting of white against skin the color of toasted cedar.
He tasted like expensive bourbon and the kind of trouble that leaves you with a permanent kink in your lower back.
The air in the gallery was that specific brand of recycled desert heat, the kind that smells like expensive ozone and desperate ambition.