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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.