The course skin of the square stemmed mint made it easy to uproot from the warm soil.
James could tell from the irregular pattern of the upholstery that the couch was old and had in the presence of cats.
“It’s worse than the felling of pulling off ice cubes frozen to your finger tips.”
The glossy surface of the piano reflected all light, but skin was drawn in. The old masterpiece felt like cream.
“I hate that remote.” “Huh?” “The plastic on the bottom isn’t right. I feels furry.”
To the unfamiliar friend seemed like velvet: supple, smooth, appealing. To me she was a lint brush.
The charcoal crunched in my palms as I stirred the cold pieces with the tip of my thumb. Their black surface more interested in becoming part of me than remaining with its hunk, brushed off like talc.
Christine rubbed the sweat of her forehead back into her dark hair. She pulled drops from her nose and squeegeed her neck. One more mile to go.
The metal surface of the old truck didn’t feel like anything, but would in half a moment. A reflex jerked Javier’s hand away. “Son of a bitch that’s hot!”
Ben could breathe again. Cold water from the sink poured over his hand. His nausea subsided for the first time since 2 am.
The fine desert sand was as difficult to hold as oil. It drained from his grasp as easily. It clung to his skin as desperately.