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You are leaning against the marble countertop of the bar, your knuckles white as you grip a silver Dunhill lighter you do not use.
The condensation on the window mirrored the sweat cooling on her shoulder, a map of everywhere we hadn't meant to go.
His hands were seasoned—there’s no other word for it—heavy with a confidence that made my skin feel like it was humming.
The rain hit the glass like a frantic syncopated brush on a snare, making the silence between our desks feel as heavy as an unplugged amp.
You are a storm in a silk dress, pinned between the cold window and the two of us, tasting like rain and gin.
The rain is a rhythmic pounding against the glass but inside the only sound is the wet, heavy sliding of skin on skin.
The rain in Paris doesn't fall; it colonizes, turning the limestone gray and making the humidity feel like a second, heavier skin.
I watched the rain smear the Louvre into a grey thumbprint, wondering if you still kept that silver flask tucked in your tuxedo's inner pocket.
The rain in Paris doesn't fall; it colonizes the glass, turning the Tuileries into a blurred green smear that looks like a bad recon photo.