The Nocturne of Calculated Longing

I’ve been playing this Chopin piece for twenty minutes, not because I love the music—heaven forbid I actually enjoy something in this sterile apartment—but because he likes it when my fingers tremble slightly on the ivory. It's a precise kind of torture: crafting an image of fragility while wearing a blazer that costs more than most people’s monthly rent.
He stands behind me, smelling of expensive cedar and missed deadlines, his presence a heavy weight in the room. I can feel his gaze tracing the line where my skirt meets thigh—a calculated gap designed to evoke 'innocence' while screaming for attention. We call this modern romance: two people performing roles they’ve rehearsed from Instagram feeds, pretending that emotional intimacy isn't just another form of social currency.
He finally speaks, his voice a low vibration against the back of my neck. He tells me I look 'healing.' How quaint. As if I am some spiritual tonic for his mid-life crisis rather than a woman who knows exactly how to tilt her head to make him want to ruin this piano with us on it.
I turn slowly, letting one lock of hair fall across my eyes—the universal signal for 'please save me from myself.' He thinks he’s the hero in a slow-burn drama. I know I'm just directing the scene toward an inevitable crash into silk sheets and heavy breathing.
Warmth? Perhaps. Healing? Let's not be delusional. This is simply two hungry souls using music as foreplay because neither of us knows how to say 'I am terrified of being alone,' so we settle for a well-timed crescendo instead.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach