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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.
My pulse was a frantic, irregular rhythm in my neck, a physiological betrayal of the clinical indifference I’d spent six years perfecting.
The leather of my raptor mask smelled of tanning oils and the salt of my own breath, trapped against my lips.
I watched the sweat track a slow, glistening line down the canyon of your chest, and I hated you for breathing so easily.
She looked at me across the crowded alumni tent, her smile a footnote to a story we hadn’t finished writing ten years ago.
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.
The air in the shop tasted of ozone and cedar, a sharp contrast to the damp, gray smell of the Cambridge street outside.
He looked at her and felt the same bone-deep rattle you get when you’re too close to a controlled detonation.
He didn't just touch my skin; he reached for the hum of my nervous system, dragging his thumb along a ley line I didn't know I had.
I’m watching the way the condensation on her gin and tonic drips onto her thumb and I’m thinking about the script I’m supposed to be finishing.