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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.
He tasted like expensive bourbon and the kind of trouble that leaves you with a permanent kink in your lower back.
He didn't ask for permission to touch the small of my back; he claimed it as though he had already seen the deed of title.
The way you stood before the charcoal sketch of the dead orchard, your knees locked and your hands behind your back, was the only honest thing in that room.