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He smelled like the cold iron of the High Seat and the particular, ozone-heavy static that preceded a total collapse of the Sunder.
The camera shutter is a guillotine for time; it chops the continuous flow of our longing into discrete, manageable slices of evidence.
The cork came out with a sound like a polite cough, the kind you give when you're about to lie.
Her palm was a flat, hot weight against my sternum, and for a second I forgot how to breathe, how to be anything but clay.
You tasted like the twenty-year Scotch you bought me and the panic of a missed deadline, sharp and entirely too expensive.
I watched the rain smear the Louvre into a grey thumbprint, wondering if you still kept that silver flask tucked in your tuxedo's inner pocket.
My skin feels like it’s been sandpapered by salt and expensive linen, a raw, thrumming reminder of what we did near the service elevator.
Julian watched you lean over the railing, your spine a sequence of perfect, unedited verbs that he had spent ten years trying to conjugate.
The light in the Santa Ynez valley at four o'clock is a specific shade of unearned forgiveness, a gold that lies about your age.
The bass from the main stage is a physical assault, a low-frequency hum that settles in my molars and vibrates the gin.
Her thumb traced the rim of her glass, catching a stray drop of Sangiovese like she was wiping a secret off my lip.
The air in the club was thick with the kind of expensive dust that only accumulates in places where the gin is twenty dollars.