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Malachi’s thumb was stained purple, the juice of the grape looking too much like a bruise as he pressed it against the hollow of my throat.
The humidity in the ballroom was a physical weight, pressing the scent of expensive gin and industrial floor wax into the back of his throat.
She didn’t just sing; she pulled the oxygen out of the room and replaced it with something that tasted like copper and old secrets.
She stood there in that ridiculous desert light, smelling like expensive sage and cheap gin, waiting for me to fail at being professional.