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Her skin tasted like the salt-air of the Gulf and the expensive, cloying sugar of a violet-scented macaron.
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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.
The flour on my palms left white handprints on his dark trousers, a literal trail of my own undoing.
The flour on her thumb looked like a smudge of chalk on a chalkboard, a mark of something being erased or rewritten right there in the steam.