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The humidity in Grant Park felt like a breach of contract, a heavy, suffocating weight that made every inch of skin feel litigious and over-sensitized.
!["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.
The leather of my raptor mask smelled of tanning oils and the salt of my own breath, trapped against my lips.
Her skin is the color of expensive stationery and I am about to ruin the margin with every mark I leave.
Her skin was coated in that fine, glittery festival dust that gets into everything—your lungs, your gear, your memories.
The air in the club was thick with the kind of expensive dust that only accumulates in places where the gin is twenty dollars.