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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.