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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.
Observation 4: The subject’s respiration increased by forty percent when the tactile stimulation shifted from the mid-thigh to the pelvic girdle.
The bass from the main stage is a physical assault, a low-frequency hum that settles in my molars and vibrates the gin.
I watched her count the spines on the shelf, her finger dragging across the buckram, unaware I was measuring the distance in heartbeats.
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.
I was a tourist in his tragedy, standing in a limestone cellar that smelled of old wood and new sins.
His thumb hooked into her lace, the tension between them snapping like a high-tension wire in a Santa Ana wind.
He didn't touch my hand so much as he redefined the space where my skin ended and the flour began.
!["Keep Your Eyes on the Knife"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"keep-your-eyes-on-the-knife"-474-cover-1775998845624.jpg)
He tasted like the last bit of crusty bread used to swipe a plate of debris—salt, fat, and the ghost of a good red wine.