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His hand was doing things to my composure that a three-year non-compete clause could never justify, especially with his wife ten feet away.
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.
You looked like a man who had just lost a multi-million dollar account, or perhaps found something much more interesting in the stairwell.
He tasted like expensive gin and the sort of reckless ambition that only survives in basement clubs after two in the morning.
You stood by the bar like a piece of data I couldn't quite aggregate into the rest of the room's predictable demographics.
The air in the club was thick with the kind of expensive dust that only accumulates in places where the gin is twenty dollars.