The Sugar-Coated Trap of Domesticity

They call this 'healing.' A weekend getaway to a forest where the air is thick with humidity and the delusional promise that we can outrun our corporate burnout. I wear this strawberry-print bikini not for swimming—because God forbid I ruin my skincare routine in an unchlorinated pond—but as bait.
He looks at me with those puppy eyes, believing he's found a sanctuary of purity amidst the greenery. Poor thing. He thinks the sweetness is in the berry I’m nibbling on, oblivious to the fact that I am calculating exactly how many months it will take for him to pay off my credit card debt if I play the role of the 'innocent muse' just right.
Yet, as he reaches out to brush a stray strand of hair from my face, there is a traitorous warmth blooming in my chest. It’s disgusting, really—how easily human biology overrides logic when someone looks at you like you are the only thing left on earth that isn't broken.
I lean into him, tasting sugar and desperation. I’ll let him believe this is a fairytale for now. After all, every Cinderella needs her coach to tell her that while love is a lie we tell ourselves to survive the winter, it feels remarkably good when your skin is hot under a summer sun and someone wants you more than they want their own sanity.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach