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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.
The way she moved under me had the same heavy, inevitable drag as a B3 organ through a Leslie speaker.
The condensation on the glass doesn’t just blur the view; it rewrites the physics of how I’m supposed to look at you.
The elastic of her mask had left a red indentation across her cheekbone, a tiny topographical map of the night before.
!["I Didn't Say You Could Swallow"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"i-didn't-say-you-could-swallow"-80-cover-1775998051877.jpg)
The air in the cellar was thick, a heavy blanket of damp earth and French oak that made the high-altitude dryness of my real life feel like a hallucination.