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The desert heat had a way of turning professional boundaries into something as fluid and unreliable as a shimmering mirage on the 111.
His hand was on my hip, his thumb hooked into my belt loop like he was anchoring himself against a gale-force wind.
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.
Her palm was a flat, hot weight against my sternum, and for a second I forgot how to breathe, how to be anything but clay.
The bass from the main stage is a physical assault, a low-frequency hum that settles in my molars and vibrates the gin.