The Sterile Ritual of Intimacy

I stand before the mirror in a bathroom that smells of expensive soap and calculated indifference. My reflection tells me I am beautiful, which is just another way of saying I am well-maintained—like a vintage sports car kept under a silk sheet to avoid dust.
He’s waiting for me in the bedroom with 'warmth' promised in his eyes, though we both know warmth is merely an illusion created by two bodies trying not to freeze in this concrete jungle. I tie my bikini strings slowly, each knot a tiny contract of trust that neither of us truly believes in.
Urban romance is just choreographed loneliness shared between sheets with high thread counts. He says he wants to 'heal' me; what he actually means is he finds the fragility of a broken woman erotic—a delicate instrument for him to play while pretending it’s an act of service.
I glance back at him through the steam, my skin still damp from a shower that did nothing but wash away yesterday’s disappointments. I smile because I know exactly what this is: we are two ghosts haunting each other in high-definition. But as he reaches for me, his fingers grazing the small of my back, I decide to let myself believe it's love—simply because desire is far more honest than hope.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach