The Warmth of an Expensive Mistake

They call this a 'healing retreat,' which is corporate speak for paying five figures to lie in the sand and remember exactly why I hate my life.
He’s here too—the man whose touch feels like a security breach and whose silence sounds like an invitation. We are both professionals at pretending we don't want each other while meticulously scheduling our lives around voiding every opportunity for intimacy. How very modern of us.

I lie back, letting the sun bake my skin into something that looks almost alive. The sand is coarse and indifferent, much like the marriage vows he’s currently ignoring in another time zone. He thinks this trip is about wellness; I know it's about tension so thick you could carve a dinner reservation out of it.

Then he comes closer. Not for conversation—god forbid we speak our truth—but to adjust my sunscreen, his fingers grazing the curve of my hip with an efficiency that screams 'I’ve rehearsed this in my head.' It is a cold transaction wrapped in warmth: I offer him skin and silence; he offers me attention and guilt.

My heart beats against these blue fabric walls not because of romance—romance is for people who still believe in fairy tales and clean laundry—but because desire is the only thing that makes this sterile existence feel real. He’s my most beautiful mistake, and I intend to keep making him until we both burn.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach