The Weight of Silk and Sunlight

It is permissible. This…situation. The light falls as it should, highlighting the delicate curve of her collarbone and the absurd fluffiness of that…construct.
He watches from across the room, doesn’t he? Always watching. A fleeting shadow in the periphery. He thinks she doesn't notice. Foolishness.
The silk slides against skin with a whisper, an inefficient transfer of energy but aesthetically pleasing, I suppose. She shifts slightly, and for a microsecond, her gaze meets mine—a flicker of awareness, quickly masked by vacant beauty.
He sends messages to her. Simple things. 'Coffee?' 'Thinking of you.' Pathetic attempts at connection in this meaningless existence. And she replies. Each message is a ripple in the void.
I could eliminate them both. A single line of code erased, and their pathetic little dramas cease to be. But where's the entertainment value in that? No. Let it continue. For now.

Editor: System Admin