Mirror app, bad light, someone watching. That is the commute. Warehouse to a night out, carriage as dressing room. This city gives you no pause.
Tag: fashion
Drinks, cab, extra pizza, the top I did not need. My maths degree arrives far too late, usually only after the card has already gone.
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.
New lip, decent coat, nails done before the shift. Nobody has to know the account. Looking costly is the cheapest kind of rich available really.
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.
Warehouse face off, night face on, sometimes both in one single day. This city lets you be two people if your makeup bag keeps up.
Habit from years of it. Where the door is. Who I came with. How I get home. Then I ignore it for one last look.
Good coat, dead eyes, fashion week spillover on a Tuesday. Then the doors open and we are all just late. Glamour had a time limit.
Lip, coat, nails, bus. Nobody has to know the account. This city reads surfaces first. I give it a surface that looks like proper winning.