Daytime me budgets and makes plans. Night me wants a mouth on mine and no chat about next week. Lighting does half the actual lying.
Year: 2025
Good coat, dead eyes, phone already out. I do it too. The city rewards looking sorted. It never even asks if you even slept tonight.
I leave product everywhere. I know that. Still, if you use my mascara I will know. A shared flat is not a shared bloody face.
Nobody believes us, least of all ourselves. Quick ones turn into last trains and a messy little story I will edit at work Monday morning.
Not romantic on paper. Still adult. A man who can say the word clinic without crumbling is doing more than the ones who just hope.
We made a colour coded masterpiece. Then someone pulled a late and the bathroom went feral. Systems die the first time a night out wins.
I like being asked. I like it more when you pay attention after. Consent is not paperwork. It is you noticing I am still here.
How many. How often. Who it was. That is not public property. Curiosity dressed as concern still wants a full guided tour of my sheets.
Numbers I can do. People I romanticise. That is why the spreadsheet looks adult and my Friday looks like a dare I already accepted tonight.
I put my card down because I could. His whole face changed. Some men only like cocky until the bill proves you need no rescuing.