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I can feel the phantom weight of your hand on my hip while I’m standing at the podium, a ghost-press that ruins my posture.
The air conditioning in the gallery hummed like a low-budget horror score, a cold, mechanical buzz that did nothing to chill the sweat pooling at the base of my spine.
His hand on my neck felt like a cast-iron skillet—unyielding, retaining a heat that scorched long after the flame went out.
The friction of your thumb against the inside of my wrist was more disruptive than the forty-thousand dollar canvas hanging to our left.
You stood by the bar like a piece of data I couldn't quite aggregate into the rest of the room's predictable demographics.
The air in the gallery was that specific brand of recycled desert heat, the kind that smells like expensive ozone and desperate ambition.