The Weight of Silk

He thinks he wants a rescue. All these men do, really – some phantom ache they believe a woman’s softness can mend.
I watch him across the bar, nursing his single malt like it holds the secrets of the universe. It doesn't. Just sediment and regret.
The dress feels ridiculous, all this shimmering fabric clinging to skin that's usually hidden under layers of cashmere and indifference. A costume for a game I stopped playing years ago. But she insisted; said I needed reminding of my own allure.
Allure is leverage. That’s what they don’t understand. The power in a glance, the curve of a lip promising everything and delivering… precisely calculated satisfaction. It's exhausting.
He's looking now, predictably drawn to the spectacle of something that appears fragile but has survived intact. Let him think he sees a damsel. I'll show him the weight of silk – how it can bind as easily as it flows.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach