It is always damp and in the wrong rack. Shared gadgets turn grown women into detectives. I want my tray. I want my dignity back.
Tag: Sunday
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.
We made a colour coded masterpiece. Then someone pulled a late and the bathroom went feral. Systems die the first time a night out wins.
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.
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.