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She didn’t look like a painting; she looked like the person the painter was trying to impress before he gave up and started drinking.
!["You’re Smirking Into Your Gin Again"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you’re-smirking-into-your-gin-again"-364-cover-1783987240275.jpg)
I looked at the phone in my clutch, the screen a tiny white sun against the charcoal walls of the gallery.
He looked at her and felt the same bone-deep rattle you get when you’re too close to a controlled detonation.
I’ve written five hundred sex scenes, Nolan, but I couldn’t have plotted the specific, heavy way you moved your thumb against my hip.
The air conditioning in the Bergamot Station gallery was set to sixty-two degrees, yet the back of my neck was slick with sweat.
The clasp snagged on the cuff of my jacket, a tiny silver anchor keeping us moored in a room full of people we both despised.
I pinned her against the cold marble of the pedestal, the scent of her perfume cutting through the expensive air like a flare.
My psoas muscle, usually the first thing to tighten under stress, felt like it was melting into the gallery floor.
His hand is a heavy weight against my throat, not squeezing yet, just a binding clause I haven't figured out how to litigate.
The air conditioning in the gallery was doing that thing where it makes everyone's skin look slightly blue under the track lighting.
Her laughter had the texture of expensive stationery—heavy, slightly abrasive, and hinting at a message I wasn't quite ready to decode.
I watched the way the track lighting caught the sweat on the small of your back while you arched for her, a composition more honest than anything hanging on those sterile white walls.