@fukstar / cont.
“so it’s that simple? do what i want, fuck the rest?”
she’s coke-fiend chic; 80% legs— red-bottom heel bobbing, half-hung off the arch of her foot. all the sharp angles of her are used as lean-to’s: cupped palm cradling an elbow, knees supporting her poor, slumped posture. it’s cooler up top; goose flesh pimpling where the perfumed breeze kisses her skin.
“even if they hate me for it?”
truthfully, in all parallels, she’s the schmoozing bastard with the champagne flute. a nepo kid with a few records and a five-hundred episodic chronicling everything from her first fuck to her first mental breakdown. she looks into the glass. swirls its contents around. it’s warm now— seasoned with the breath of the record producer who handed it to her. nico sets it aside, nauseated, and pops the clasp on her heart-shaped purse.
“you’re in that band.” déjà vu. she holds a tiny mirror up and tucks a flyaway back into place. ignores the smudged, i’ve been crying make-up and instead eyes him in the compact’s reflection before snapping it shut.
“do you know who i am?”