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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.
I watched her throat move when she swallowed the Cabernet, and I thought about the exact pressure required to leave a mark there.