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You tasted like copper and rain and that cheap lime seltzer you’d been nursing since the sun went down over the main stage.
The lace of your mask was digging into your temple, a minor penance for the way you were looking at my throat.
I watched the flour settle in the fine hairs of your forearms, a dusting of white against skin the color of toasted cedar.
You tasted like the twenty-year Scotch you bought me and the panic of a missed deadline, sharp and entirely too expensive.