The Weight of Silk

He thinks he knows what quiet is. A minimalist apartment, the hush after a snowfall… He’s so wrong.
I could unravel him with a glance, a slow tracing of his jawline in my mind. It's intoxicating, this power I hold – the ability to be everything he doesn't know he craves.
The silk feels like a second skin, doesn't it? A fragile barrier against a world that demands too much. He’d see that, maybe. See the way I build walls just as carefully as I dismantle them… for certain people.
He hasn’t texted. Of course not. It's been three hours and fourteen minutes; why would he disrupt this delicate dance? The silence is a test, isn't it? A push to see how long I’ll linger in the space between us before finally, inevitably, fading away?
I reach for another cigarette, the cherry glowing like a small, defiant ember. He hates when I smoke. Good.

Editor: Danger Zone