The Distance that Fosters Passion, part 2

She counts the days on her fingers, each one a small ache she carries behind her sternum. The silk robe pools at her elbows as she leans toward the camera, close enough that you can see the flush climbing her throat.

You recognize that look — it belongs to a woman who has been waiting long enough that patience has curdled into something hungrier. Her hands move with deliberate slowness, like she's savoring the fact that you're finally watching.

The distance hasn't cooled anything. If anything, it has concentrated her, the way heat reduces a sauce to something richer, more intense than it was before.