The Satin Trap of Domestic Bliss

I’ve spent ten hours today pretending to be a functioning member of corporate society, wearing a blazer that felt like armor and drinking coffee that tasted like burnt ambition. Now I stand here in this silver slip—a garment designed specifically to make men forget their own names while they consider how much the mortgage costs.
He says he loves me for my 'soul', which is romantic shorthand for: I’ve already internalized your personality, now please just look edible under these LED lights. The city hums outside our window like a dying machine, but inside, there is only the scent of expensive candles and the heavy silence that precedes something inevitable.
I smile at him—not with love, precisely, but with the calculated warmth of someone who knows exactly where her power lies in this room. He thinks he's healing my spirit after a long day; I know I’m just inviting him to lose himself in a silk-lined void.
We call it modern romance: two tired souls clinging to each other like survivors on a raft, while the satin clings even closer to my skin, promising that for one night at least, we can pretend we aren't just beautifully packaged products of an indifferent city.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach