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She looked at me with the kind of unflinching, clinical appraisal I usually only see in doctors delivering bad news or women deciding how much of a problem I’m going to be.
The way you handled that upright bass—all thick wood and vibrating tension—should have been a federal travel warning for anyone with a pulse.
You tasted like copper and gin, and when you finally put that saxophone down, your hands were still shaking from the vibration.
He didn't just play the bass; he wrestled it, his thighs bracketed around the curve of the wood like he was trying to keep it from bolting.
The way your thumb traced the rim of your glass had the same heavy, rhythmic intent as a man cleaning a sidearm.
I want to see if you taste like that bourbon you’ve been nursing, or if you’re just as sweet and dangerous as a peach soaked in moonshine.
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.