The Gilded Cage of Absence

He sends orchids, always white. A gesture, I suppose, to match the emptiness he claims to feel without me.
The sea air is cool on my skin; a temporary reprieve from the heat of accumulated wealth and unspoken resentments. This villa…it’s just another gilded cage, isn't it? Exquisite, meticulously maintained, utterly devoid of life beyond its walls.
They say time heals all wounds. A convenient fiction for those who haven’t yet experienced the particular agony of a love bought and carelessly discarded by someone else’s ambition.
He calls. I don’t answer. The phone slips from my hand, landing softly on the cashmere throw. It's always something soft to break the fall, isn't it?
The photographer arrives shortly, his lens another extension of the scrutiny that has been a constant companion since birth.
He asks me to look wistful. He doesn’t understand my life *is* wistful. A carefully constructed facade of melancholy is all I have left.

Editor: Champagne Noir