The Linen Alibi for Longing

I’m wearing ivory linen—the official uniform of women who want to look like they have their lives together while secretly counting down the seconds until a glass of cheap Merlot hits my lips. It's breathable, elegant, and perfectly designed to hide the slight tremor in my hands as I walk through this curated neighborhood where every tree seems paid for by a corporate sponsorship.
I’m not looking for 'the one'; that’s a fairy tale sold to people who still believe in magic mirrors. No, I am hunting for something far more dangerous: warmth. The kind of heat that doesn't come from an HVAC system but from another person’s skin against mine after ten hours of pretending to be professional.
He is waiting at the end of this street—a man who knows my coffee order and exactly which part of my lower back aches when I lean too far into a spreadsheet. We call it 'healing,' as if we are broken vessels being glued back together with gold, but let’s be honest: it's mostly just an excuse to touch each other in ways that would make HR file three different reports.
As I walk toward him, the fabric of my trousers swishes against my thighs—a soft, rhythmic reminder that beneath this neutral palette beats a heart desperate for something messy. He’ll smile, he’ll take my bag, and then we will retreat into our small apartment to perform the ritual of urban romance: ignoring our phones while breathing each other in until the world outside becomes nothing more than white noise.
It isn't poetry; it's biological imperative wrapped in expensive fabric. And god help me, I’ve never wanted anything more.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach