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The silk of her dress was thinner than I expected, barely a barrier between my calloused palm and the heat of her hip.
The dust was everywhere, a fine silt that turned our sweat into a kind of gritty lubricant, making every touch feel prehistoric.
The way her knees pressed against the velvet of the seat, she looked like a prayer someone forgot to finish saying.
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 watched the sweat track a path between your breasts like a river cutting through a valley I hadn't yet mapped.
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.
Her skin tasted like the salt-air of the Gulf and the expensive, cloying sugar of a violet-scented macaron.
He tasted like a four-hundred-dollar bottle of Scotch and the kind of career-ending decision that looks spectacular in the right lighting.