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The salt air is doing things to your hair that your stylist in the Loop would probably categorize as a breach of contract.
He tastes like the first press of a cane harvest, raw and heavy with the promise of something that could burn.
His hand was a heavy weight on my lower back, a physical lien on my composure that I had no intention of discharging.
I had spent a decade teaching students that 'show, don't tell' was the ultimate commandment, but as his tongue traced the architectural line of my hip, I realized I had never understood the weight of a physical verb.
!["You Really Shouldn't Have Ordered the Pinot"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you-really-shouldn't-have-ordered-the-pinot"-917-cover-1779004859744.jpg)
She traced the edge of my laptop with a fingernail that had a tiny chip in the red polish, looking at me like I was a script she was about to pass on.
The scaffolding groaned beneath us, a rusted skeleton articulating our shared sins against the backdrop of a cold, indifferent New England sky.
There’s a specific kind of silence in a bookstore at midnight, a density of unread words that feels like a physical weight against your skin.
The city lights below looked like a scattered pile of gold nuggets in a miner's pan, but Sloane only had eyes for the way Dominic’s suit jacket pulled across his shoulders.
He tasted like the first humid press of a New Orleans July, thick with the promise of a storm that never breaks.
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.
Her fingers were stained purple with juice from the crushed blackberries, a messy contrast to the clinical precision of her knife work.