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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.
The salt on your neck was a seasoning I hadn't prepared for, sharp and minerals-heavy against the dull sweetness of the hotel's cheap champagne.
You tasted like the twenty-year Scotch you bought me and the panic of a missed deadline, sharp and entirely too expensive.
The Amtrak coffee tasted like a wet wool blanket, but you were looking at my mouth like it was the only thing on the menu.
He leaned in close enough that I could smell the expensive peat of his scotch and the cheap arrogance of his firm.
I watched her throat move when she swallowed the Cabernet, and I thought about the exact pressure required to leave a mark there.