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You were wearing that silk shirt that looked like poured cream, and I watched the way your throat moved when you swallowed.
He leaned over my desk, the smell of cedar and stage-whiskey hitting me like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.
I could feel the condensation from her glass dripping onto my thigh, a cold, sharp contrast to the way her thumb was tracing my hip.
The way she moved under me had the same heavy, inevitable drag as a B3 organ through a Leslie speaker.
He smelled like the cold iron of the High Seat and the particular, ozone-heavy static that preceded a total collapse of the Sunder.
I looked at the screen, the blue light washing over the scars on my knuckles like a cold mountain stream.
The camera shutter is a guillotine for time; it chops the continuous flow of our longing into discrete, manageable slices of evidence.
The cork came out with a sound like a polite cough, the kind you give when you're about to lie.
Her palm was a flat, hot weight against my sternum, and for a second I forgot how to breathe, how to be anything but clay.
The air on that rooftop was thick enough to chew, a humid New York mess that tasted like gin and impending ruin.
You tasted like the twenty-year Scotch you bought me and the panic of a missed deadline, sharp and entirely too expensive.
I watched the rain smear the Louvre into a grey thumbprint, wondering if you still kept that silver flask tucked in your tuxedo's inner pocket.