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He didn’t look at the dough. He looked at me, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line through the flour on the marble.
Her skin had the texture of a well-worn Manduka mat—grippy, warm, and resilient—against the cold industrial concrete of the studio floor.
She was vibrating at a frequency that would have shattered a lesser man, a high, sharp C-sharp that tasted like lightning.
The flour on my palms left white handprints on his dark trousers, a literal trail of my own undoing.
He tastes like the coffee we drank an hour ago and the cold air he brought in from the porch, sharp and grounding.
!["Keep Your Eyes on the Knife"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"keep-your-eyes-on-the-knife"-474-cover-1775998845624.jpg)
He tasted like the last bit of crusty bread used to swipe a plate of debris—salt, fat, and the ghost of a good red wine.
I’ve spent half my life in places where a wrong move meant a body bag, yet here I am, worried about your heels.
You are the structural misalignment I’ve spent three days trying to breathe through, a knot in my psoas that refuses to release.