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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.