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.
Tag: warehouse
Not always, but often enough to notice the pattern. Body against body and the day shuts up. It works until I get fully dressed again.
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.
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.
The tube becomes a greenhouse and manners melt. I still put product on. Looking done is how I refuse to let London see me wilt.