It will be tonight.
After work, his time is solely devoted to primping, dressing, dressing again, and a few careful dabs of cologne. It has to be perfect.
The light spills into the room as he opens the door. From outside, he can see only hints and edges, gleaming, polished, and sharp. She is a most elegant construction. He closes the door. It's better with some mystery to it.
He slides into the place meant for him. "I love you," he whispers to her.
As the blades slip into him, he knows, utterly and perfectly, that she loves him, too.
Vossler on Soaping and Writing
17 hours ago