The Serene Trap of Sunday Reading

I sat before the giant, stone Buddha like a girl waiting for her prince to wake from eternal sleep. He was carved out of marble indifference; he offered no salvation, only aesthetic silence. I held The New Yorker open at chest height—not because I wanted knowledge, but as a shield against his judgmental gaze. People think warmth comes from the sun or a shared coffee mug.

They are fools who have never felt that specific heat rise in their own veins when they know someone is watching them read while pretending to admire the architecture. The Buddha didn't care about my outfit, but I knew you did. This isn't healing; it's baiting. You want me warm? Come here and steal this magazine away from your competition.

Editor: Cinderella's Coach