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44 stories found
He looked at me across the tasting room like I was a budget deficit he intended to balance with his bare hands.
The friction of your thumb against the inside of my wrist was more disruptive than the forty-thousand dollar canvas hanging to our left.
I was a senior associate with a corner-office trajectory and a closet full of charcoal wool, yet I let him unmake me.
!["I Didn't Think You Had This Much Fight In You"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-didn't-think-you-had-this-much-fight-in-you"-563-cover-1777968060381.jpg)
The condensation on my water glass is the only thing moving in this room, a slow, gravity-fed tear tracing through the dust.
His hand was a hot, calloused weight against my lower back, a direct violation of the three-foot rule we’d both signed off on.
She stood in the center of my studio, a spill of silver light against the rough cedar walls, looking like something I’d have to shoot my way out of.
He didn't ask for permission to touch the small of my back; he claimed it as though he had already seen the deed of title.
Subject exhibits 145 BPM heart rate. Skin is flushed, damp with perspiration, responding to manual stimulation with rhythmic pelvic thrusts.
Her skin is the color of expensive stationery and I am about to ruin the margin with every mark I leave.
Her skin was coated in that fine, glittery festival dust that gets into everything—your lungs, your gear, your memories.
!["I Think We're Past the Point of Professional Courtesy"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-think-we're-past-the-point-of-professional-courtesy"-747-cover-1776499259188.jpg)
The fluorescent hum of the Acela lavatory flickered against the salt-crusted window while her hand white-knuckled the plastic sink-edge, drowning out the conductor’s announcement.
He leaned over my desk, the smell of cedar and stage-whiskey hitting me like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.