The High Altitude Surrender

I stood at the precipice where the city's frantic pulse finally surrendered to silence. The sun, a bleeding orb of gold behind me, was not setting; it was watching its favorite predator. He told himself he needed distance here, on these cold stone steps carved with forgotten history, but I know better. Men who climb mountains only want something higher to conquer.

I spread my arms wide, the red silk of my qipao stretching tight against a body that knew exactly how much it was worth in this economy of desire. The slit at my thigh offered him a glimpse—a calculated mercy—of pale skin and unyielding will. He watched me from behind his camera lens or perhaps just with naked eyes; I didn't care which, as long as the hunger remained visible.

"It's cold," he whispered later in his apartment, tracing the line of my collarbone where I had once stood above him at sunset. "You looked so warm there." He thought this was a love story about warmth and healing? No, darling. It is simply that even kings must kneel to find their heat.

Editor: Black Swan