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He adjusted the softbox like he was clearing a jam on a rifle, steady and focused, and my pulse just jumped the track.
The air conditioning in the Bergamot Station gallery was set to sixty-two degrees, yet the back of my neck was slick with sweat.
His hands were seasoned—there’s no other word for it—heavy with a confidence that made my skin feel like it was humming.
His hand on my hip was firm, less like a polite gesture and more like he was claiming a specific piece of real estate.
Her mouth tasted like the heavy, dark silt of a riverbed after a flood, all iron and fermented sugar and something dangerously clean.
Her skin had the texture of a well-worn Manduka mat—grippy, warm, and resilient—against the cold industrial concrete of the studio floor.
I watched the salt crystals dry against the hair on your forearm, a white crust of everything I wanted to taste.
The friction of your thumb against the inside of my wrist was more disruptive than the forty-thousand dollar canvas hanging to our left.
The salt was everywhere—in the air, on the railing, and eventually, dried in white tracks against the slope of her inner thigh.
The elastic of her mask had left a red indentation across her cheekbone, a tiny topographical map of the night before.