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31 stories found
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.
She looked at me with the kind of focus usually reserved for a contract line-item, then she let the elevator door close.
I viewed his interest as a high-value prospect with a significant barrier to entry, a lead that needed aggressive nurturing.
His hand was so steady on my hip I actually considered, for one terrifying second, if he was worth the HR paperwork.
Her breath on my collarbone was a localized weather pattern, a warm front moving against the stagnant chill of the hallway.
The smell of her hair was exactly the same, a mix of expensive salon products and the faint, metallic bite of lighter fluid.
The way you handled that laser pointer during the afternoon breakout session should be illegal in at least forty-seven states.
The way she unzips that dress is a procedural nightmare, a slow-motion violation of every ethics seminar I’ve sat through since the Bar.
!["If You Don't Close That Door, I'm Going to Keep Thinking You're a Tourist"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"if-you-don't-close-that-door,-i'm-going-to-keep-thinking-you're-a-tourist"-951-cover-1785283262235.jpg)
The rain didn't just fall; it dismantled the city, turning the limestone facades into something slick and treacherous, much like the look in her eyes when her husband left the room.
He didn’t just occupy space in the bar; he seemed to be the reason the room was holding its breath at all.
You're watching the condensation slide down your glass, wondering if the humidity in this valley is personal or just seasonal.
You looked like a man who had just lost a multi-million dollar account, or perhaps found something much more interesting in the stairwell.