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My pulse was doing the same frantic dance it did during the 2008 Lehman collapse, all high-stakes panic and impending ruin.
The humidity in Tulum was a physical weight, like a bad quarterly projection, and you were standing by the mezcal bar looking like a liability.
He tasted like expensive Scotch and the kind of trouble that gets you disbarred, but I didn't care about my license just then.
I watched the way his thumb tracked the rim of the glass, like he was looking for a flaw in my packaging before the pitch.
The humidity in the barrel room was exactly seventy-two percent, perfect for aging oak and the way her sweat didn't evaporate.
You didn't breathe like the others; you didn't even sweat, despite the brutal elevation and the humid weight of the Berkshire pines.
You stood there like a goddamn monument to my own poor decisions, dripping wet and holding a stolen bottle of Barolo.
She leaned against the weight bench, her skin shimmering with a fine mist of sweat that looked like a high-budget lighting rig.
I pinned her against the cold marble of the pedestal, the scent of her perfume cutting through the expensive air like a flare.
He looked at me like I was a failing campaign he was personally assigned to turn around with a massive budget and no oversight.
His hand is a heavy weight against my throat, not squeezing yet, just a binding clause I haven't figured out how to litigate.
He smelled like the cold air of Union Station and expensive wool, a combination that made my throat tighten like a poorly drafted non-compete.