Crisps on the bed, playlist up, someone doing a full face. We swear we are being sensible. Then the first round happens and plans die.
Category: Nights Out
Hair done, smirk on, playlist in both ears. By the door I am Els. The flat sees the other one applying the whole bloody face.
Lipstick, voice note, a photo of him at the bar. Safety plan plus a rating. Nights out run on intel. The queue is real chat.
No map, no group chat, no cab app. Just mascara and hope. A dead battery is how a cute night turns into a survival plot.
Club lighting lies. Your flat does not. Someone wants one more and I want my bed. I stay anyway and edit that story later on.
The performance drops in the back seat. Makeup in the window. Feet wrecked. I replay the exit I missed and still call it fun anyway.
Times, trains, whose house after. I look organised. I am just frightened of being left in a doorway with nowhere to put this tired face.
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.
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.
The performance drops in the back seat. I replay the look I should have left on. Call it a good night. Mean it halfway, barely.