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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.
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.
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.
He didn't touch my hand so much as he redefined the space where my skin ended and the flour began.
The condensation on the glass doesn’t just blur the view; it rewrites the physics of how I’m supposed to look at you.
She didn’t just sing; she pulled the oxygen out of the room and replaced it with something that tasted like copper and old secrets.
Her back was arched against the bathroom door, and for a second, the only sound was the radiator hissing like a disgruntled extra.
She stood there in that ridiculous desert light, smelling like expensive sage and cheap gin, waiting for me to fail at being professional.
Your hands were behind your back, your wrists crossed, and for a second, the only sound was the tide hitting the rocks.