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The desert heat had a way of turning professional boundaries into something as fluid and unreliable as a shimmering mirage on the 111.
The way you hold that white robe closed at the neck reminds me of a closed-off thesis statement that everyone knows is a lie.
Her eyes were the color of a West Texas storm front, that bruised purple-black that tells you to batten down the hatches.
I still have the receipt from that cafe car—fourteen dollars for a plastic bottle of Chardonnay that tasted like a battery.
Her voice had that low, rhythmic rasp, like tires on the gravel of a Malibu turnout at two in the morning.
The studio smelled of ozone and expensive dust, a sterile environment where he planned to dissect me with a high-definition lens.
His thumb hooked into the waistband of my silk trousers, dragging the fabric down just enough to expose the scar from my appendectomy.
I’m fifty-one, and I’ve written enough sex scenes to populate a small town, but doing it on a mahogany floor is a different plot twist.
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She leaned back against the mahogany bar, the condensation from her gin and tonic dripping onto a wrist that hadn't aged a day.
He looked at me like I was a failing campaign he was personally assigned to turn around with a massive budget and no oversight.
The rain hit the glass like a frantic syncopated brush on a snare, making the silence between our desks feel as heavy as an unplugged amp.
I remember the way the spine of that first edition cracked, a sound like a dry branch snapping under the weight of August humidity.