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I watched the sweat track a slow, glistening line down the canyon of your chest, and I hated you for breathing so easily.
Her heels clicked against the parquetry with the rhythmic, punishing precision of a chef's knife hitting a walnut board in a busy service.
You look like you're trying to calculate the ROI on looking at me, and honestly, the math isn't checking out.
She smells like expensive paper and the kind of tequila that makes you forget your own zip code.
The cedar bark was rough against her shoulder blades, and the air up here was too thin to sustain the way we were breathing.