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The train rhythm was a pulse in my marrow, a low-frequency hum that made my thighs ache before anyone had even touched them.
The mask was meant to conceal our identities, but it actually just amplified the hunger I’d been repressing for three solid months.
Julian leaned into my personal space like a hostile takeover, his thumb hooking into my belt loop while the room watched.
The air was the texture of a heavy cream reduction, thick enough to coat the back of a spoon and tasting of bourbon and brass.
Claire watched the spittoon and wondered if there was a polite clinical term for the way the girl’s thumb was tracing the rim of Julian's glass.
The light in the Santa Ynez valley at four o'clock is a specific shade of unearned forgiveness, a gold that lies about your age.
You are the structural misalignment I’ve spent three days trying to breathe through, a knot in my psoas that refuses to release.