The Weight of Silk

He thinks a cashmere sweater and a shared taxi ride are romantic gestures. Pathetic. Men mistake politeness for interest all the time; it's exhausting.
I let him believe what he wants, of course. A little harmless play doesn’t cost me anything. It’s simply…efficient to navigate this world with men believing they have a chance. The power dynamic alone is a delicious distraction from the monotony of board meetings and lukewarm coffee.
But then he touched my hand – just briefly, as I was fumbling for my keys – and his skin felt unexpectedly calloused, like he actually *worked* for something beyond impressing women at cocktail parties. A flicker of…something inconvenient. It’s unsettling how easily a carefully constructed wall can feel porous.
I smoothed the silk tie, the texture strangely grounding against my fingertips. This is a complication I don't need. Still...his eyes held a quiet observation, not the usual eager anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, this could be…interesting.

Editor: Sharp Anna