I know. Another train. That’s what you do when you’re travelling, and me.
Here is the cast:
Me. Rocking a kind of a lesbian chic look, an overall with a white tee and a pale blue linen stripe shirt, expensive but trying to be understated. Studded boots. Throwing off the scent with an actual hiking backpack. Hot gran of the group. Disavowing this fiercely.
Levi and Ella. Loved up, beautiful connection, everything is politic , youth won’t end anytime soon vibe. That vegetarian, dishevelled, organic shampoo – no I have not just slept in it what are you trying to say – look. Peace out for fucks sake people.
The blond Maelstrom. My french failed me, she spoke too fast. Hot body poured into Michael Kors. Four kids. The weekend off her four kids. Two dads. Jittery. Inhaling rose in an airline sized wine bottle. Chanel perfume and meat sticks that she offered the vegetarians. A lot of giggling. Checked and reapplied lipstick three times an hour. Shambles. Adorable.
Hand tattoo semi goth chick. Said nothing. Wanted to be friends. Didn’t know where to begin. Thudded down where my feet were so comfy just seconds before. Interesting tattoos, hand drawn, naive art. Probably not that naive. Ripped jeans, black jersey undoubtedly scratchy on her skin.
Compulsary black dude. Blocking the world out with music from the mobile and the hood over his head. What? I didn’t say fucking nothing. Je ne dis pas putain de rien.
i will always love your term ‘lesbian chic’