Gold Dust in an Elevator Mirror

The light here is too honest, a cold fluorescent hum that tastes like stale coffee and last night's bad decisions. I stand in the elevator, my reflection staring back at me through glasses slightly smudged by sleep—two versions of myself caught between who I was when we danced until dawn and who I am now, shivering under thin gold fabric.
He had left his oversized shirt on the bed; it smelled like cedarwood and a kind of safety I hadn't known in years. But as the lift ascends with a slow, mechanical sigh, all I can feel is the lingering warmth of his hand against my lower back from ten minutes ago—a touch that felt less like desire and more like an anchor.
We didn’t talk about forever; we just whispered about how quiet the city looks at 4 AM. Now, looking at myself in this mirrored box, I realize I'm not just wearing a swimsuit for some imagined beach trip. I'm wearing it because he told me my skin looked like honey under moonlight.
The doors chime open with a weary metallic clatter. I step out into the morning air, still half-drunk on him and the sudden realization that being known is far more intimate than being seen.

Editor: Dusk Till Dawn