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Malachi’s thumb was stained purple, the juice of the grape looking too much like a bruise as he pressed it against the hollow of my throat.
The silk of her dress was thinner than I expected, barely a barrier between my calloused palm and the heat of her hip.
The heat in the cedar sauna was like a D-minor chord held too long—thick, heavy, and vibrating right in the center of my chest.
She held the steel blades against the vine with the same practiced indifference she used to strike lines from my copy.
I still have the receipt from that cafe car—fourteen dollars for a plastic bottle of Chardonnay that tasted like a battery.
She was a walking litigation risk, draped in enough midnight-blue silk to bankroll a small revolution and smelling of cold rain.
The way your breath catches against the shutter’s click suggests you aren’t nearly as bored with this as you’re pretending to be.
He looked at me like I was a sequence he couldn't quite master, all limbs and breath and stubborn refusal to find center.
I was staring at the organic kale smoothie like it was a personal insult until I saw you across the hydrotherapy pool.
Her voice had that low, rhythmic rasp, like tires on the gravel of a Malibu turnout at two in the morning.
I watched her thumb trace the rim of the glass, wondering if she knew that every slow, circular motion was making my throat go dry.
I can feel the phantom weight of your hand on my hip while I’m standing at the podium, a ghost-press that ruins my posture.