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You stood there like a goddamn monument to my own poor decisions, dripping wet and holding a stolen bottle of Barolo.
The salt air is doing things to your hair that your stylist in the Loop would probably categorize as a breach of contract.
The salt was everywhere—in the air, on the railing, and eventually, dried in white tracks against the slope of her inner thigh.
Her skin is the color of expensive stationery and I am about to ruin the margin with every mark I leave.