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The ice in her cup had melted into a flat, gray slurry, but she kept stirring it with a plastic straw, looking at me like I was a problem she was looking forward to solving.
Her skin tasted of salt and expensive gin, a combination that made my mouth water like a steak hitting a white-hot skillet.
The friction of her wool skirt against his trousers had the same rhythmic, warning rasp of a serrated blade being drawn from a Kydex sheath.
She looked at me like I was a ribeye and she’d been on a juice cleanse for a month. I knew better, but God, I didn't care.
The humidity had turned my notebook into a sponge, but I still wrote down every word he said as if it were a deposition.
The yacht hummed beneath our feet like a living thing, a white fiberglass cage that felt smaller with every mile we put between us and the coast.
The humidity in the Berkshires during August doesn’t just sit on you; it negotiates with your dignity until you’re both translucent.
She didn't look like a woman who waited for things, but there she was, dissecting a lemon peel with surgical focus.
Her breath on my collarbone was a localized weather pattern, a warm front moving against the stagnant chill of the hallway.
The humidity in Grant Park felt like a breach of contract, a heavy, suffocating weight that made every inch of skin feel litigious and over-sensitized.
Julian watched me over the rim of his glass with the clinical detachment of a surgeon deciding where to make the first incision.
She didn't just want me to stop talking; she wanted the very air I'd used to form the words returned to her.