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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.