How many. How often. Who it was. That is not public property. Curiosity dressed as concern still wants a full guided tour of my sheets.
Tag: nightlife
Numbers I can do. People I romanticise. That is why the spreadsheet looks adult and my Friday looks like a dare I already accepted tonight.
I put my card down because I could. His whole face changed. Some men only like cocky until the bill proves you need no rescuing.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.