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.
Tag: makeup
Bags by the door, uniform waiting, that low familiar dread. Even if the weekend was messy, the Monday reset feels like being marched straight back.
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.
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.
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.
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.