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I watched her thumb trace the rim of the glass, wondering if she knew that every slow, circular motion was making my throat go dry.
The smell of her hair was exactly the same, a mix of expensive salon products and the faint, metallic bite of lighter fluid.
The way Julian looked at me across the tasting table had all the subtle, expensive violence of a hostile takeover bid.
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.
I’m watching the way the condensation on her gin and tonic drips onto her thumb and I’m thinking about the script I’m supposed to be finishing.
The way he gripped the stem of that Zinfandel glass made me want to be the glass, breakable and clear and desperate for his mouth.
I knew I was over the line the second I saw her in that white dress, looking like a target I wasn't allowed to hit.
He didn’t look at the dough. He looked at me, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line through the flour on the marble.
He has these hands that look like they could build a house or tear one down, and right now, they’re wrapped around my wrists.
The flour on her thumb looked like a smudge of chalk on a chalkboard, a mark of something being erased or rewritten right there in the steam.
Her skin is the color of expensive stationery and I am about to ruin the margin with every mark I leave.
I’m in the third row of the keynote, watching your pulse thrum against your collar. I’ve never hated a lanyard more.