It is a trick. If I look busy and shiny, rejection cannot land. Then I am on the sofa checking he viewed the story again.
Tag: London
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.
Not sex this time. An actual argument. I put music on and hated myself for listening. Thin walls make you an unpaid bloody little witness.
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.
If it is easy, I stay out. If I am bored in twenty minutes, I should leave. I rarely leave. That is always the problem.
I feel flush one stupid evening. The app opens and the glow dies. Hope is not a budget. It is a hobby I cannot even afford.
One good evening and everyone acts like we made it here. Then the tube is a greenhouse and I remember all of the usual moaning.
If it is all serious I tense up fast. Filthy and funny is the mix. I come easier when I am not bloody posing about.
Not always, but often enough to notice the pattern. Body against body and the day shuts up. It works until I get fully dressed again.