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I looked at him the way I look at a particularly stubborn semi-colon in a student’s lyric essay: I knew he was doing too much work, but I couldn't bring myself to delete him.
The rain was hitting the roof like a bag of brass falling on concrete, and there was Chloe, looking entirely too steady for a woman who’d just downed three double-espressos.
I watched the way the track lighting caught the sweat on the small of your back while you arched for her, a composition more honest than anything hanging on those sterile white walls.
Elias was moving around her like a predator who had forgotten he was supposed to kill, holding that camera like a holy relic.