The matte black remote control on the coffee table blends in seamlessly among the TV and air conditioner remotes, revealing nothing. Only she knows the secret this unassuming device commands.  

It arrived on a rainy afternoon, the parcel sitting quietly in the entryway. When she unwrapped it, the silicone material left a peculiar sensation on her fingertips—like touching some deep-sea creature. She tucked it away in the velvet-lined drawer of her vanity, as if concealing a forbidden work of art.  

 

The remote became their private game, played with knowing glances. Sometimes at cafés, his thumb would graze the buttons imperceptibly, watching the subtle ripple that tightened her grip on the coffee cup. In crowded elevators, she’d slip the remote into his palm deliberately, feeling his fingers tense around it.  

 

The most unforgettable moment was during the symphony. As the orchestra swelled in the fourth movement, he dialed the setting to its peak. Her knuckles whitened around the program booklet, the velvet seat beneath her thrumming with invisible currents. When the violins reached their crescendo, she suddenly understood why this modern invention was designed for remote control—some thrills lie precisely in the perilous anticipation of the unknown.  

 

Now the remote rests within easy reach, its battery light pulsing steadily. Neither of them reaches for it, letting the suspended tension hum between them. Perhaps the true pleasure lies not in activation, but in the quiet, simmering expectation before it happens.  

Outside, neon lights flicker. The remote’s screen reflects the city’s glow like dormant future technology. She knows—when it’s next held in a waiting palm, even the city’s electric pulse will tremble in response.