The Sweetness of Seasonal Delusion

They call this 'healing,' as if a slice of overpriced organic watermelon and the right lighting could patch the holes in my soul left by an eight-hour shift at a desk that smells like stale coffee and desperation. I stand here, balancing on one leg—a precarious feat for someone whose only stability is her payroll deposit—wearing a peach bikini that promises more than it delivers.
He's behind the lens, capturing this staged purity. He thinks he’s documenting 'warmth,' but we both know what this really is: an expensive performance of happiness designed to be scrolled past in 0.5 seconds on a smartphone screen. Yet, when his voice drops low and tells me to smile just a little wider, I feel a heat that has nothing to do with the July sun.
It's pathetic, really, how easily we mistake proximity for intimacy in this concrete jungle. But as I bite into the cold fruit, letting the juice drip down my chin, I realize I don’t want his soul—I just want him to forget he's a professional and remember that I am warm skin and hungry eyes.
Let them call it romance; we both know it is simply two lonely animals trying to keep each other from freezing in an air-conditioned world.

Editor: Cinderella’s Coach