Naw, Fuck the CTA: How ‘bout UberPool? With a Random Stranger?
The calling which Tate had pursued upon the closing of the gilded doors of their mansion was indeed temperamental, and did share some traits that, upon the right consideration, might liken to the customer service industry as a whole. Did Tate not have the insufferable client, and the returning client, and the admirable client? Ah, and they did perform, in respect to each of these presences, and their income did depend upon that believable thing! It was in their fortune that they had attended a schooling for such this trait, and that they had done well to succeed in its training. Ah, if only their parents- estranged as they were, and as certainly they would be- had known to what their wealth had applied to! Well, well, was it not their fault that this fate had befallen the escort, altogether? As it were, as it were.
Tate stared down at their device. They were committing more than one sin on this day, it seemed: to enchant a man for their money, and to be running late to that very scenario. It was a French damnation, too, that they were not adhering to the careful schedule which they had planned for themselves. They now held a personal affliction, as they scrolled their options for transportation: UberBlack was a wait they would not risk, but at the great and insufferable cost of the discretion of UberPool as an alternative. Tate had not been familiar with the commonplace means of travel in so long, they could not recall its last passing- no, they were far too well-off for such a choice, insofar that they were more accustomed to personal chauffeurs these days.
But! This was at risk of losing a client, and it was with a heavy, and disappointed, thumb that Tate accepted the alert that a nearby driver would then accept. It was only a brief consideration that passed through Tate’s mind, that their apparel, at the request of their client, which had fallen to Tate’s jurisdiction under a preference of a dominant nature, would immediately give way to the determination of their industry, for, exposing the length of their toned legs, was a material of fishnet leggings, and atop them, a pair of ripped shorts, paired with a tank top, and a leather jacket that suggest a vast amount of wealth- after all, why hide what men had invested in them, and to better remind their current client of their worth?
Tate turned on their heel as they were alerted of their ride’s arrival, and their wild hair, but a wig, placed and carefully situated on their head to better give the image of a woman not to be messed with, briefly shrouded their features, which were decorated with makeup, to depict what the media had always called something of a “punk-rock ho.” They exhaled again, in haughty distress, as they considered the vehicle and all its blandness, its common features. There was nothing- truly nothing!- that compared to the barely-concealed scream of wealth from a plain black luxury car. Still, they ducked inside, and settled against the imposter leather with a short nod to the driver.
Looking up from his phone as the little sedan pulled over and the back driver’s side door opened, Miah was instantly inwardly ecstatic at the sight of his fellow passenger. He noticed her clothes first, and the look she appeared to’ve been going for when she put them on ((yeah, so, he obviously wouldn’t know their pronouns yet, give him a sec)) was, frankly, right up his line; she had kind of an unkemped, timeless grunge thing going on, and while he’d never recognize fancy brand names when he saw them, he thought his own clothes - which, yeah, were objectively expensive - gave off a similar vibe. So maybe she spent a few dollars on her outfit at the Salvation Army, maybe she’d paid top dollar for the perfect, precise amount of artificial distress... or maybe, like Miah, she had girlfriends/cousins/roommates/a mom of similar size with good taste and enough generosity to hand over access to their wardrobes.
The somewhat flashy hoodie Miah had permanently ‘borrowed’ from Olivia ((high school ex, unfortunately still of very fucking relevant presence in his life)) could probably be sold used on Ebay for upwards of $100: he knew this, he’d bought it for her. The jeans Miah had thankfully thrown on over the Batman pj’s he almost always wore prevented him from looking 100% completely like a college student who’d rolled out of a dorm loft 7 minutes before 8am lecture, opted to risk tripping on his untied shoelaces and falling on his face because he didn’t have enough time to tie them, but he did have, at least, enough class not to show up to the lecture hall in fucking slippers, then topped off his disheveled look by throwing on a beanie to save the fraction of a minute it would’ve taken to actually brush his goddamn hair. They were also supposed to be women’s jeans - Miah could tell from the ridiculous size of the pockets, which could barely hold even a little tube of chapstick - and he didn’t remember which woman he got them from, but thank FUCK he had them on instead of her at the moment: that one article of clothing made the difference between looking like a slob who should be lounging around his apartment and not out in public, and being fairly well put together in, like the other UberPool passenger, a lowkey disheveled, timeless grungie kind of way.
Miah smiled as the lady slid into the backseat next to him, squaring his posture towards her and bringing up his left knee to rest his leg comfortably on his seat ((he’s small and flexible, so he’s barely imposing on the middle seat)), communicating friendliness with his body language. The lady wasn’t acknowledging him, but she knew he was there. Since she didn’t have headphones in that he could see, Miah decided to try and chat her up.
“So! Is today just starting, or is it almost over?”
romaincrisis
germansingergirl
pixelskylines
ellievsbear
izzy806
kianamaiart
baratheonpilled
