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The salt had dried in white, jagged maps across her shoulders, and I wanted to lick the geography of it right off her skin.
He looked at me like I was a sequence he couldn't quite master, all limbs and breath and stubborn refusal to find center.
The salt didn’t just sit on his skin; it felt like it was trying to cure him, like a piece of country ham hanging in a smokehouse.
He had that way of standing, you know? Like he was part of the boat's architecture. Steady. Immovable. And I just wanted to see if I could make him tip.
Julian watched you lean over the railing, your spine a sequence of perfect, unedited verbs that he had spent ten years trying to conjugate.