I tell myself the promotion ends the tight feeling for good. It will help. It will not make me suddenly wise on a Friday night.
Tag: London
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.
Mascara at midnight, work badge in the same bag. This city watches you switch lives in one carriage and nobody comments. That is the mercy.
No speech. Just the look and an extra mug on the side. Flatmates see the mascara and the hour. Lying is pretty pointless in here.
Do not just grunt and hope for the best. Tell me it is good. Tell me where. Quiet men make me bored and over perform.
People love a girl who is easy to plan around. I have taste. I have a body. Wanting both respected is not me being difficult.
Anyone will touch me in the dark. Fewer will hold my hand by the bus stop. That gap tells me more than those late texts.
Not showy messages. The are-you-home-safe ones after. Aftercare is a character test. Most good people pass the sex easily and then fail the morning kettle.
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.
It was good. Too good, maybe. Next day he talks about timing and work stress. I know a retreat when I am watching one clearly.