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.
Tag: rent
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.
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.
Uber. Bar. A name I will not save. I sat at work hoping nobody asked. Being skint makes romance feel like a secret little purchase.
A walk is never just a walk. Travel, outfit, time off the rota. Casual is a lie London tells so nobody notices the standing order.
Good coat, dead eyes, fashion week spillover on a Tuesday. Then the doors open and we are all just late. Glamour had a time limit.
Bins, money, whose turn, why the hallway smells. Nobody booked a meeting. The kitchen just becomes court and I sit in last night’s makeup still.
He buys oat milk and never contributes to wifi. I did not advertise for a third flatmate with a hoodie and opinions about the remote.
She says it is casual. We still clock shoes, job, whether he rinsed a mug. This flat runs checks. Nobody asked. We do them anyway.