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My psoas muscle, usually the first thing to tighten under stress, felt like it was melting into the gallery floor.
She had a way of looking at her phone that suggested she was waiting for a ransom demand or a very specific apology.
She’s standing there in that silk slip looking like a tactical error I’m about to make with my eyes wide open.
His hand is a heavy weight against my throat, not squeezing yet, just a binding clause I haven't figured out how to litigate.
He tracked the line of her throat like a melody he’d been humming for a decade but finally found the words for.
The rain hit the glass like a frantic syncopated brush on a snare, making the silence between our desks feel as heavy as an unplugged amp.
He didn’t look at the dough. He looked at me, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line through the flour on the marble.
!["I Thought You Said You Could Handle a Little Ice."](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-thought-you-said-you-could-handle-a-little-ice."-361-cover-1780473650913.jpg)
The condensation on my phone screen blurred his name, but I didn't need to see it to know the weight of his words.
I checked his neck for the plastic badge, a nervous tic of an old habit, wondering if the years had softened the sharp line of his collarbone.
He watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed, a tiny, rhythmic tick that felt more honest than anything she’d actually said.
The train rhythm was a pulse in my marrow, a low-frequency hum that made my thighs ache before anyone had even touched them.
He smelled like the cold air of Union Station and expensive wool, a combination that made my throat tighten like a poorly drafted non-compete.