My instructor for this writer's "workshop" wrote that I had a run-on in the paragraph I turned in to show description. I did not have a run-on in the whole thing--it may be long. It may be awkward, but it is no run-on.
Don stared at his wife when she flowed into the room, and he almost poured the milk on the countertop rather than over his cereal. He fought the urge to physically soak her in to his own skin--from her red-painted toes, up her slim muscular legs to her flat stomach and across her lips that he thought tasted like cherries. He sighed and shook his head, grabbed his spoon and dunked it into his full bowl. A splash of milk landed on the back of his spoon hand. Don turned away, instead, imagining her as she grabbed her keys from the entry table where she left them last night, how she let her long fingers spread wide, letting those wonderful scratching nails barely brush the entryway table. He dragged his fingers through his hair, pausing at the crown of his head as if to hold himself down. The door clicked closed and a hum of the garage door filled their tiny house, then the gentle purr of her Mercedes Cabriolet. Don closed his eyes, bringing his milk-splattered hand to his mouth and drinking it before he jaunted up the stairs for a shower.