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You tasted like copper and gin, and when you finally put that saxophone down, your hands were still shaking from the vibration.
The dust was everywhere, a fine silt that turned our sweat into a kind of gritty lubricant, making every touch feel prehistoric.
Her skin tasted like the salt-air of the Gulf and the expensive, cloying sugar of a violet-scented macaron.
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.
He didn't use a decanter for the 2012, just let it sit in the glass until the air forced the fruit to give up.
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.