I let the Pheromones roll across the conference table toward her like an invisible tide. Slow. Warm... rewiring her afternoon — or her marriage, whichever collapses first... until every inhale carried me into her bloodstream like a bad decision she was too polite to reject.
By the fifteen-minute mark she'd uncrossed and recrossed her legs four times — each one a tiny rebellion against gravity and good sense. Her pen was tapping a rhythm that had nothing to do with note-taking and everything to do with Morse code for "help, I'm spontaneously combusting."
A faint sheen of moisture had appeared on her collarbones — barely visible, just enough for my Eyes to clock and file under "evidence of imminent poor choices." Her pupils were dilated. Her breathing had shifted from professional composure to something deeper.
