The Heat of a Soft Landing

The city air bites, sharp and cold against my cheekbones, but the wool at my neck is a velvet prison trapping all my heat. I pause before the glass facade, watching the reflection of a woman who knows she feels good. My thumb finds the cool metal of the applicator tube; it's an electric shock compared to the feverish warmth rising in my chest.

I bring the wand up, not just applying color, but painting armor on. The texture is slick and heavy as I glide it over dry lips that are desperate for moisture. A shiver runs through me—not from cold this time—but a phantom touch of his hands sliding under these pastel trousers yesterday. My pulse hammers against my wrist where the sleeve ends.

He said he'd be late, but warmth has nothing to do with punctuality; it's about that lingering friction on skin I can still feel in the soft cotton lining of these loafers. The red stain blooms instantly, vibrant and alive like a fresh wound or a first kiss. My heart is racing now, hot enough to melt this winter city.

Editor: Pulse