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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.
He doesn’t play the notes so much as he exhales them, a slow, carbonated leak of sound that settles in the low basin of my pelvis.
He leaned over my desk, the smell of cedar and stage-whiskey hitting me like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.
The way she moved under me had the same heavy, inevitable drag as a B3 organ through a Leslie speaker.
The air in the club was thick with the kind of expensive dust that only accumulates in places where the gin is twenty dollars.
She didn’t just sing; she pulled the oxygen out of the room and replaced it with something that tasted like copper and old secrets.