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.
Tag: nightlife
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.
It makes my mouth small straight away. I would rather stay in than do that dance. Pride is expensive. So is pretending I am fine.
Drinks, sex, a vague plan that never lands on a calendar. I am done collecting almosts. Book a table or do not get me tonight.
Not in bed. In the head. They want the filthy girl until she asks what Saturday looks like. That is when they need space first.
Not pretty landmarks. Late food counters. Which one still serves you when you look a state. That is how I map this whole messy London.
I know the night bus exists. My feet know it too. Sometimes I pay the stupid fare so I do not think until I get home.
Uniform on the chair. Alarm set. The weekend already feels fictional. London does not let you keep Friday night. It wants you back in pieces.