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You looked like a problem in that vintage university sweatshirt, specifically the kind of problem I’ve spent ten years trying to solve.
The humidity in Tulum was a physical weight, like a bad quarterly projection, and you were standing by the mezcal bar looking like a liability.
My pulse was a frantic, irregular rhythm in my neck, a physiological betrayal of the clinical indifference I’d spent six years perfecting.
I watched the way his thumb tracked the rim of the glass, like he was looking for a flaw in my packaging before the pitch.
I could see your pulse in your throat, a frantic little bird trapped under the skin, while you discussed the charcoal's grit.
The rain hit the glass like a frantic syncopated brush on a snare, making the silence between our desks feel as heavy as an unplugged amp.
He watched the way her throat moved when she swallowed, a tiny, rhythmic tick that felt more honest than anything she’d actually said.
Julian leaned in, his breath smelling of expensive oak and a very specific kind of corporate rebellion that I found suddenly, dangerously intoxicating.
The salt air is doing things to your hair that your stylist in the Loop would probably categorize as a breach of contract.
She smells like expensive paper and the kind of tequila that makes you forget your own zip code.
I’m in the third row of the keynote, watching your pulse thrum against your collar. I’ve never hated a lanyard more.