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Leo didn’t move. He just stood there with that damp towel over his shoulder, watching the way I held the handle, measuring my breath.
I remember the way the flour stayed in the creases of his knuckles, like chalk dust on a blackboard in a room where no one's spoken for an hour.
The flour on her neck looked like a dusting of California ash, the kind that settles after a wildfire has taken the ridge.
I watched the way the white dust clung to the hair on her forearms, a tactile map of every mistake I was about to make.
You were wearing that apron like you’d never seen a kitchen before, which is funny, considering you were the one holding the butcher knife.
The flour on her thighs looked like topographical maps, tracing the places where Julian’s fingers had dragged through the sweat.
Your thumb was hooked into my belt loop, dragging the denim just enough to let the draft hit my skin while the stove hummed.
Her skin tasted like the sea, which was a lie, because we were in the middle of the Tuscan hills, miles from any coast.
I watched the way your thumb smoothed over the flour on the marble, a rhythmic, unconscious erasure of everything but our immediate proximity.
!["You’ve Got Flour on Your Eyelashes"](https://miscd.fra1.digitaloceanspaces.com/medium/"you’ve-got-flour-on-your-eyelashes"-862-cover-1785110466336.jpg)
He leaned in until the heat from his chest radiated through my silk slip, his breath smelling of peppery olive oil and gin.
My billable hour is four hundred and fifty dollars, yet I’m standing in a basement in Pienza letting a man tell me I’m incompetent.
You leaned over the workstation, your forearms dusted with 00 flour, and I realized then that you enjoyed being corrected.