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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.
The bass was a bruise against my ribs and West was looking at me like I was the only drink in a dry county.
The flour on my palms left white handprints on his dark trousers, a literal trail of my own undoing.
The cedar bark was rough against her shoulder blades, and the air up here was too thin to sustain the way we were breathing.
His thumb was tracing the ridge of my hip bone like he was following a contour line on a map he'd memorized.
She tasted like expensive dust and blackberries, her tongue pushing against mine with a demand that made my knees feel like they were made of cornmeal.
The rain was coming down in sheets of gray iron, blurring the world outside until there was nothing left but the two of them and the smell of old paper.
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 use a decanter for the 2012, just let it sit in the glass until the air forced the fruit to give up.
He tastes like the coffee we drank an hour ago and the cold air he brought in from the porch, sharp and grounding.
He doesn’t play the notes so much as he exhales them, a slow, carbonated leak of sound that settles in the low basin of my pelvis.
He tasted like expensive bourbon and the kind of trouble that leaves you with a permanent kink in your lower back.