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She looked at me like I was a ribeye and she’d been on a juice cleanse for a month. I knew better, but God, I didn't care.
She didn't look like a woman who waited for things, but there she was, dissecting a lemon peel with surgical focus.
She didn't just sit; she occupied the space like a challenge, her drink sweat-beaded and untouched while she dismantled my defenses.
The way you’re looking at my collarbone suggests a high-intent audience with a significant budget for bad decisions.
!["I'm Counting Every Minute You’re Not Under My Thumb"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i'm-counting-every-minute-you’re-not-under-my-thumb"-419-cover-1784246467772.jpg)
The saxophone wailed like a widow while I watched her pulse jump against the high collar of that black silk shirt.
You were vibrating at a frequency that shouldn't exist in a city governed by the laws of thermodynamics and the MBTA.
The jazz is a jagged thing tonight, all elbows and sour notes, but you are steady as a cast-iron skillet.
He tasted like expensive gin and the sort of reckless ambition that only survives in basement clubs after two in the morning.
The way he looked at her across the fretboard wasn't about the chord progression; it was a rehearsal for something much louder.
His thumb was hooked in the waistband of her trousers, pulling the fabric taut against the swell of her hip like a resistance band.
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.
The bass was a bruise against my ribs and West was looking at me like I was the only drink in a dry county.