The Warmth on the Other Side of Glass

The studio light hums its white hymn behind me, but my world has narrowed to three inches of cold glass in my palms. I trace the screen not for a notification, but for the weight of it, the small anchor that keeps my pulse from spilling out like something feral and bright. My fingers are long, deliberate; the ivory crochet clings to my skin like a second breath, soft where it should be wild, restrained where the body begs to run.
Then his message lands. Just a timestamp and a single line: did you eat? The question is so small it almost breaks me. In this city of glass towers and hurried strangers, no one asks if I have eaten; they only measure how fast I move, how much I perform. But he sees the hollow under my ribs, the way my shoulders cave when the day ends, and he offers warmth as if it were a physical thing he could press into my hands.
I bite my lower lip, the animal in me rising slow and hot against the lace that holds me modest. I want to throw myself at him, to devour the silence between us, yet I remain seated on the grey floor, knees drawn up, composed like an icon in a quiet chapel. That is the art of it: desire kept on a leash of softness.
I type back with trembling grace, my thumbs barely touching the keys. Thank you. I am eating now. And for one suspended moment, the cold glass warms against my skin, and I am no longer just a body in a studio, but a woman being tenderly found.

Editor: Leather & Lace