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She didn't just sit; she occupied the space like a challenge, her drink sweat-beaded and untouched while she dismantled my defenses.
She didn’t look like a painting; she looked like the person the painter was trying to impress before he gave up and started drinking.
The way she holds that glass—two fingers on the rim, thumb tracing the base—it’s the same way a session player holds a heavy pick.
!["I Thought You Said You Could Handle a Little Ice."](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-thought-you-said-you-could-handle-a-little-ice."-361-cover-1780473650913.jpg)
The condensation on my phone screen blurred his name, but I didn't need to see it to know the weight of his words.
The way your thigh pressed against the edge of that velvet sofa looked like a bruise forming in real-time under the studio lights.
The air conditioning in the gallery was doing that thing where it makes everyone's skin look slightly blue under the track lighting.
I watched the flour settle in the fine hairs of your forearms, a dusting of white against skin the color of toasted cedar.
She tasted like expensive dust and blackberries, her tongue pushing against mine with a demand that made my knees feel like they were made of cornmeal.
I watched the way the condensation pooled in the hollow of your throat, wondering if you knew my pulse was mirroring yours.