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The way he looked at me wasn't a question; it was a foregone conclusion, like a match held too close to dry cedar.
You were wearing that apron like you’d never seen a kitchen before, which is funny, considering you were the one holding the butcher knife.
She looked at me with the kind of unflinching, clinical appraisal I usually only see in doctors delivering bad news or women deciding how much of a problem I’m going to be.
She moved through the stacks like a misplaced modifier—beautiful, disruptive, and demanding a total rewrite of my Tuesday nights.
The way you handled that upright bass—all thick wood and vibrating tension—should have been a federal travel warning for anyone with a pulse.
She’s watching me the way a beat reporter watches a city councilman about to commit perjury—with a terrifying amount of focused, predatory patience.
You tasted like copper and gin, and when you finally put that saxophone down, your hands were still shaking from the vibration.
You look at me over the top of her head, your jaw tight as a bowstring, and I know I’m not supposed to be here.
Her breath on my collarbone was a localized weather pattern, a warm front moving against the stagnant chill of the hallway.
The condensation on the window pane mirrored the way her sweat beaded against the small of her back in the dim light.
My heels were sinking into the synthetic turf, and Julian was looking at me like I was a layover he didn't mind extending.
You always were a terrible liar, Julian, and that suit is doing things to your integrity that I find personally offensive.