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[nightingcle]

LENA rolled her eyes. "Have you maybe considered quitting?" She turned back to her closet, pulling out random items of clothing and throwing them into piles indiscriminately. "If I had to work with this little cunt I would have slapped her to pieces. Who does she even think she is?"

LIFE had not brought Tatiana many friends. She liked to blame it on her shyness, but she knew that she had none of the giggly modesty of what men liked to call sweet — no, she was loud and crass when the whim moved her. It was no secret that all of her friends in her late 20's and 30's had been Caio's friends, and so by extension, hers, but as soon as that relationship unraveled, they had disappeared one-by-one, like in those cheesy end-of-movie montages where each character's corporeal form disintegrated away like a bad Aftereffects tool.

Her one friend, her one saving grace, had always been Lena. A half-Ukrainian, half-Norwegian goddess, who was every bit as perfect and bloodthirsty as her heritage implied. Lena was five-nine, bust 31, waist 25, hip 32, shoe size 9, and Clairol bleached her hair to the heavens. She looked like if a Lord of the Rings elf had an illegitimate child with an alien — beautiful, but always morosely so, as if she had something to prove.

Like Tati, Lena had no real friends on account of her taking her modeling too seriously; and after her modeling, her marriage and skincare business. Despite all the bells and whistles that came with being married to a Forbes 500 name, Lena was frugal, and like Tati again, she'd come from virtually nothing.

Lena had been a model at Flash, of course. A legendary one, at that, having walked in 51 shows one season, she was retired by the ripe old age of 24, when she married multi-millionaire tech mogul Michael Edelman, and promptly moved into a Central Park adjacent penthouse where she'd spent the summers.

And it was at her UWS apartment that Tati sat, picking at her nails on the bed. From Cassie's, she'd gone straight to Lena's, needing a palate cleanser from her monstrosity of a client. "Cassie left a pad thai in her fridge for 16 days. Sixteen days. Can you believe her?"

[nightingcle]

LIFE had not brought Tatiana many friends. She liked to blame it on her shyness, but she knew that she had none of the giggly modesty of what men liked to call sweet — no, she was loud and crass when the whim moved her. It was no secret that all of her friends in her late 20's and 30's had been Caio's friends, and so by extension, hers, but as soon as that relationship unraveled, they had disappeared one-by-one, like in those cheesy end-of-movie montages where each character's corporeal form disintegrated away like a bad Aftereffects tool.

Her one friend, her one saving grace, had always been Lena. A half-Ukrainian, half-Norwegian goddess, who was every bit as perfect and bloodthirsty as her heritage implied. Lena was five-nine, bust 31, waist 25, hip 32, shoe size 9, and Clairol bleached her hair to the heavens. She looked like if a Lord of the Rings elf had an illegitimate child with an alien — beautiful, but always morosely so, as if she had something to prove.

Like Tati, Lena had no real friends on account of her taking her modeling too seriously; and after her modeling, her marriage and skincare business. Despite all the bells and whistles that came with being married to a Forbes 500 name, Lena was frugal, and like Tati again, she'd come from virtually nothing.

Lena had been a model at Flash, of course. A legendary one, at that, having walked in 51 shows one season, she was retired by the ripe old age of 24, when she married multi-millionaire tech mogul Michael Edelman, and promptly moved into a Central Park adjacent penthouse where she'd spent the summers.

And it was at her UWS apartment that Tati sat, picking at her nails on the bed. From Cassie's, she'd gone straight to Lena's, needing a palate cleanser from her monstrosity of a client. "Cassie left a pad thai in her fridge for 16 days. Sixteen days. Can you believe her?"

[nightingcle]

AS soon as she hands him the paper, he grins, the numbers scrawled onto the sheet, barely legible. "Well, Tatiana," he recites, standing up with her as the train reaches to a screeching halt, "you seem to have forgotten that we're getting on the same train." He pulls out his phone, punching the numbers in and texts a simple, hey, it's andreas and sends it off as he shuffles into the train and slides into the bench, patting the seat next to him. But instead, she's nowhere to be found. He stands, searching for her face amongst the commuter crowd, all the way to the end of the car. She wouldn't have, but there she was, sitting in the next car over, reading her book peacefully as if their entire conversation had never happened. What in the hell could she be thinking? It'd driven him crazy to watch her so nonchalant so he turns aroun and leans against the window, pulling out his phone. ANDREAS [3:31PM]: you look really fucking hot btw Thumb hitting send, he watches the bubble turn green (they were in the subway, after all) and he smirks to himself. When he finally had her, he would feast.

MORE than surprised, Tatiana is impressed; so much so that it almost scares her and she clamps her teeth down on her lip and chews. Say she accepted... and then what? She'd go, spend some time with this boy that was no doubt going to make fun of her anyways? She would have to refuse. "Look..." she starts, trailing off, trying to channel her ever-so wise therapist she was sure was actually at least five years younger than her. She overshared too much, and worse so much Baccarout Rouge 40 dupe that it made her eyes water, but it comforted Tatiana to have a tether to the younger world, to some sort of hope. It's then when it dawns on her that her therapist wouldn't refuse this sort of thing at all; no, in fact, she'd probably smile and accepted ten minutes ago and left on the train making out with him. "Okay. Yes. I'll go out with you." For once, Tatiana stares back. She jumps, pawing through her purse for her planner, tearing out the corner of OCT 28 and scrawling her name and number on the sheet of paper. As she hands him the slip of paper, the R train rumbles by, as if on cue and she jumps up, chewing indiscriminately on her gum. "I - I gotta go."

[nightingcle]

MORE than surprised, Tatiana is impressed; so much so that it almost scares her and she clamps her teeth down on her lip and chews. Say she accepted... and then what? She'd go, spend some time with this boy that was no doubt going to make fun of her anyways? She would have to refuse. "Look..." she starts, trailing off, trying to channel her ever-so wise therapist she was sure was actually at least five years younger than her. She overshared too much, and worse so much Baccarout Rouge 40 dupe that it made her eyes water, but it comforted Tatiana to have a tether to the younger world, to some sort of hope. It's then when it dawns on her that her therapist wouldn't refuse this sort of thing at all; no, in fact, she'd probably smile and accepted ten minutes ago and left on the train making out with him. "Okay. Yes. I'll go out with you." For once, Tatiana stares back. She jumps, pawing through her purse for her planner, tearing out the corner of OCT 28 and scrawling her name and number on the sheet of paper. As she hands him the slip of paper, the R train rumbles by, as if on cue and she jumps up, chewing indiscriminately on her gum. "I - I gotta go."

AT this point, it's almost difficult to hide his delight in succeeding — how long had it been, twenty minutes? It must have been a record for him, but he keeps it under control. Andreas looks at her, her bohemian-esque style, the calculated dissheveled-ness of her appearance. She certainly wouldn't be impressed by the buzziness of Via Marconi, even though he could probably get a spot there; nor would she be impressed by the gentrified palate of La Cosecha, even though he's been dying to try it. "Blue," he starts, "further uptown, very authentic, and I speak Spanish, so ordering es pan comido." He continues to stare, only because he is so close to his prize he can almost taste it. "What do you say? 8 tonight?" He's laying it on thick, but he can't help himself; the more he waits, the more eager he becomes.

[nightingcle]

AT this point, it's almost difficult to hide his delight in succeeding — how long had it been, twenty minutes? It must have been a record for him, but he keeps it under control. Andreas looks at her, her bohemian-esque style, the calculated dissheveled-ness of her appearance. She certainly wouldn't be impressed by the buzziness of Via Marconi, even though he could probably get a spot there; nor would she be impressed by the gentrified palate of La Cosecha, even though he's been dying to try it. "Blue," he starts, "further uptown, very authentic, and I speak Spanish, so ordering es pan comido." He continues to stare, only because he is so close to his prize he can almost taste it. "What do you say? 8 tonight?" He's laying it on thick, but he can't help himself; the more he waits, the more eager he becomes.

ANOTHER R train zips past the station and she swallows. Cassie was sure to be upset by now; she was supposed to be there 10 minutes ago, and here she was, chatting up a man that was more appropriately her age than hers. Tatiana looks at him again — that earnest grin, the sparkle in his eyes — it's all too much for her. Too much beauty, too much hope. She hadn't had that in a long time, not since she first started dating Caio, and that was when she'd still been in university. "Okay, so you take me out — where would we go?" It's a challenge, a careful test in which she'd determined that if he gave a serious answer, then he was serious.

[nightingcle]

ANOTHER R train zips past the station and she swallows. Cassie was sure to be upset by now; she was supposed to be there 10 minutes ago, and here she was, chatting up a man that was more appropriately her age than hers. Tatiana looks at him again — that earnest grin, the sparkle in his eyes — it's all too much for her. Too much beauty, too much hope. She hadn't had that in a long time, not since she first started dating Caio, and that was when she'd still been in university. "Okay, so you take me out — where would we go?" It's a challenge, a careful test in which she'd determined that if he gave a serious answer, then he was serious.

HOOK, line, and sinker, and she's caught on his thread — she's already accepted his compliment, so it was only a matter of time before he'd get her in the right place. Andreas can tell by the way she's eyeing him that there was already a tension between them that could be sliced thin with a knife. Even Louis's mother from last summer put up more of a fight than this woman did, and she definitely had at least a decade-and-a-half on vomit girl, with her low-slung jeans and tight top. He was right from the beginning; she'd be quite the easy target. He grins. "You're pretty funny. Why don't you let me be the judge on whether you're too old for me or not?" He pulls his feet up to the bench and slides closer to her, enough that he felt his forearm brush against hers. "What, too chicken to let a younger guy take you out?"

[nightingcle]

HOOK, line, and sinker, and she's caught on his thread — she's already accepted his compliment, so it was only a matter of time before he'd get her in the right place. Andreas can tell by the way she's eyeing him that there was already a tension between them that could be sliced thin with a knife. Even Louis's mother from last summer put up more of a fight than this woman did, and she definitely had at least a decade-and-a-half on vomit girl, with her low-slung jeans and tight top. He was right from the beginning; she'd be quite the easy target. He grins. "You're pretty funny. Why don't you let me be the judge on whether you're too old for me or not?" He pulls his feet up to the bench and slides closer to her, enough that he felt his forearm brush against hers. "What, too chicken to let a younger guy take you out?"

BLUSHING, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, though she can't help but put on a secret smile to herself — no doubt she would rub one out to this memory later, in the comfort of her own apartment, but he didn't need to know that. "Too old for you." It's blunt, it's harsh, it's true. Tati has to hear it out loud to pull herself away from flirting. Maybe if she had a few gin fizzes in her, it'd be different — but 3PM at a Metro stop somewhere in between midtown and uptown felt far too naked for her. "Thank you, for the compliment, though," she adds awkwardly.

[nightingcle]

BLUSHING, she rolls her eyes and shakes her head, though she can't help but put on a secret smile to herself — no doubt she would rub one out to this memory later, in the comfort of her own apartment, but he didn't need to know that. "Too old for you." It's blunt, it's harsh, it's true. Tati has to hear it out loud to pull herself away from flirting. Maybe if she had a few gin fizzes in her, it'd be different — but 3PM at a Metro stop somewhere in between midtown and uptown felt far too naked for her. "Thank you, for the compliment, though," she adds awkwardly.

ANDREAS watches her tension ease, and he can't help but smirk to himself — perhaps he'd misjudged how difficult this would be. The way she's flustered is even more for him to grab onto, and he sinks his teeth into her with great satisfaction. "Twenty-four," he replies, "and I don't need to learn from anyone that touching a beautiful woman is a form of flirtation, no? How old are you?" He wagered she was in her thirties, from the looks of it.

[nightingcle]

ANDREAS watches her tension ease, and he can't help but smirk to himself — perhaps he'd misjudged how difficult this would be. The way she's flustered is even more for him to grab onto, and he sinks his teeth into her with great satisfaction. "Twenty-four," he replies, "and I don't need to learn from anyone that touching a beautiful woman is a form of flirtation, no? How old are you?" He wagered she was in her thirties, from the looks of it.

TATIANA isn't sure what her endgame is — all she'd wanted was a peaceful day of work, so she could go home and watch Netflix — but the way he replies is so earnest and unfettered with hasty excuses that her irritation dissipates. "No, I don't like to be touched." Even as she says it, it feels like a lie; she did yearn to be touched by someone, tenderly, or passionately, or both. "How old are you anyways? Sixteen? — where'd you learn to do that?" She huffs, turning away as she chews on the gum, suddenly concerned with the quality of her breath against his face.

[nightingcle]

TATIANA isn't sure what her endgame is — all she'd wanted was a peaceful day of work, so she could go home and watch Netflix — but the way he replies is so earnest and unfettered with hasty excuses that her irritation dissipates. "No, I don't like to be touched." Even as she says it, it feels like a lie; she did yearn to be touched by someone, tenderly, or passionately, or both. "How old are you anyways? Sixteen? — where'd you learn to do that?" She huffs, turning away as she chews on the gum, suddenly concerned with the quality of her breath against his face.

DESPITE her obvious shock, Andreas doesn't budge. He didn't expect for her to react this way, but now? Now this was interesting. He feels something stir in his stomach at her palatable disgust, a familiar hunger for a woman's ego — as if she's a prize to be won — the thing is, Andreas knows that he could win every single one. Even the ones that didn't want him would want him by the end. He'd done it a million times before, with women almost twice her age, and she would be no different. "You had something on your face," he replies simply, standing his ground. Despite the fact that she looked away, he continues to stare, cocking his head slightly. It comes to him before he can calculate the risk, but he says it anyways. "Do you not like to be touched?"

[nightingcle]

THE mere touch of his finger against her lip shocks her, let alone the fact he'd just wiped away a fleck of vomit from her mouth. How long has it been since anyone's touched her? Even her own mother never liked touching her, stating there was something dreadfully wrong with her daughter, that she was evil, a demon, something to be killed. It'd turned out that her mother was acutely psychotic, and when Tatiana was eight years old, her mother was shipped off to a psychiatric institution while she was sent to live with her grandmother in Boston. Even Caio, for all of his Brazilian warmth and masculinity, stopped touching her soon enough. It's like hugging a rock, she remembers overhearing him say once. Like she's dead or something. "I - why'd you touch me?" It tumbles out before she can stop it. She hears the R pull up and rumble to a stop, she'll be late to Cassie's, but it hardly seemed to matter anymore. It was disgusting, the way he'd felt entitled to touch her, and yet, she doesn't bother to move. He doesn't either, staring at her with the same intense resolve she'd encountered earlier. "Who do you think you are?"

[nightingcle]

THE mere touch of his finger against her lip shocks her, let alone the fact he'd just wiped away a fleck of vomit from her mouth. How long has it been since anyone's touched her? Even her own mother never liked touching her, stating there was something dreadfully wrong with her daughter, that she was evil, a demon, something to be killed. It'd turned out that her mother was acutely psychotic, and when Tatiana was eight years old, her mother was shipped off to a psychiatric institution while she was sent to live with her grandmother in Boston. Even Caio, for all of his Brazilian warmth and masculinity, stopped touching her soon enough. It's like hugging a rock, she remembers overhearing him say once. Like she's dead or something. "I - why'd you touch me?" It tumbles out before she can stop it. She hears the R pull up and rumble to a stop, she'll be late to Cassie's, but it hardly seemed to matter anymore. It was disgusting, the way he'd felt entitled to touch her, and yet, she doesn't bother to move. He doesn't either, staring at her with the same intense resolve she'd encountered earlier. "Who do you think you are?"

THERE'S something inordinately sweet about the way she plucks the gum from his fingers and stuffs it into her mouth without question. Andreas knows he will relish this kill, so much so that he already has the entirety of it mapped out in his head. He will take her home, charm her with a fake sob story he's magicked out of thin air, make her feel younger than she's probably felt before... and then, she'd be putty. He looks down at her fingers, searching for an engagement ring (it was always more fun when they were married), but all she had was a collection of kitschy silver rings, her left ringer starkly blank against the rest of her hand. No matter; she could still have a long-term boyfriend somewhere in the picture, some limp-dicked editor for a failing magazine, or a thirty-something barista moonlighting as a DJ. He smirks to himself, thinking about how pathetic it all was, and how much he'd enjoy ruining it all. "It's fine, I didn't even see it," he lies, and with a calculated ease, he lets out a soft laugh, leaning forwards. Her breath smells like sour spearmint, and he licks his thumb, swiping at the corner of her lip with the green vomit mark. He feels her tense, eyes widening as she leans back. "You got a little something there."

[nightingcle]

THERE'S something inordinately sweet about the way she plucks the gum from his fingers and stuffs it into her mouth without question. Andreas knows he will relish this kill, so much so that he already has the entirety of it mapped out in his head. He will take her home, charm her with a fake sob story he's magicked out of thin air, make her feel younger than she's probably felt before... and then, she'd be putty. He looks down at her fingers, searching for an engagement ring (it was always more fun when they were married), but all she had was a collection of kitschy silver rings, her left ringer starkly blank against the rest of her hand. No matter; she could still have a long-term boyfriend somewhere in the picture, some limp-dicked editor for a failing magazine, or a thirty-something barista moonlighting as a DJ. He smirks to himself, thinking about how pathetic it all was, and how much he'd enjoy ruining it all. "It's fine, I didn't even see it," he lies, and with a calculated ease, he lets out a soft laugh, leaning forwards. Her breath smells like sour spearmint, and he licks his thumb, swiping at the corner of her lip with the green vomit mark. He feels her tense, eyes widening as she leans back. "You got a little something there."

IMMEDIATELY, Tatiana feels naked to the man's gaze besides her, and she hasn't even looked at him yet. Here she was thinking she was all alone, left to her devices to vomit up the contents of her lunch at the 57th St stop, but no — someone had to be watching, and then speak to her. She inhales, turning as her eyes darting across his face and onto the station before them, not wanting to stare too much. She notices how young he is, the grooves of his face clean-shaven and smooth, eyes containing a mischievous glint that hadn't been extinguished by the hardships of life yet. Head covered by a beanie, she sees the sparkle of jewelry in his ear and around his neck, and she almost wants to snort at how perfect this is. He was the exact type of man — no, boy — she would have driven herself crazy over a decade ago. She would have giggled and preened, worn her Crazy Sexy Push Up from Victoria's Secret (back when that was a thing) and a barely-there tank top and attempted to seduce him into her twin bed, only for him to not text back the next afternoon when she bid him good-bye. It was laughable how attractive he was, and yet, all his youth did was burden Tatiana's shoulders even more. Chipped nail polish, sun-wrinkled hands, lips encrusted with a hint of green vomit from Sweetgreen arugula. She can practically predict what he's thinking, about how she'll probably be posted to his Snapchat or Instagram stories later as the crazy old hag that he watched puke at 57th St. Once upon a time, the thought would have mortified her beyond belief, but today, she is beyond caring about what some twenty-something TikTok star was going to think. She takes the gum from between his fingers, breaking the shared gaze and nods. "Thank you," she mutters, delicately unwrapping the foil and folding the gum into her mouth. "And, uh, sorry you had to see that."

[nightingcle]

IMMEDIATELY, Tatiana feels naked to the man's gaze besides her, and she hasn't even looked at him yet. Here she was thinking she was all alone, left to her devices to vomit up the contents of her lunch at the 57th St stop, but no — someone had to be watching, and then speak to her. She inhales, turning as her eyes darting across his face and onto the station before them, not wanting to stare too much. She notices how young he is, the grooves of his face clean-shaven and smooth, eyes containing a mischievous glint that hadn't been extinguished by the hardships of life yet. Head covered by a beanie, she sees the sparkle of jewelry in his ear and around his neck, and she almost wants to snort at how perfect this is. He was the exact type of man — no, boy — she would have driven herself crazy over a decade ago. She would have giggled and preened, worn her Crazy Sexy Push Up from Victoria's Secret (back when that was a thing) and a barely-there tank top and attempted to seduce him into her twin bed, only for him to not text back the next afternoon when she bid him good-bye. It was laughable how attractive he was, and yet, all his youth did was burden Tatiana's shoulders even more. Chipped nail polish, sun-wrinkled hands, lips encrusted with a hint of green vomit from Sweetgreen arugula. She can practically predict what he's thinking, about how she'll probably be posted to his Snapchat or Instagram stories later as the crazy old hag that he watched puke at 57th St. Once upon a time, the thought would have mortified her beyond belief, but today, she is beyond caring about what some twenty-something TikTok star was going to think. She takes the gum from between his fingers, breaking the shared gaze and nods. "Thank you," she mutters, delicately unwrapping the foil and folding the gum into her mouth. "And, uh, sorry you had to see that."

LIKE always, he catches sight of her first. Andreas didn't like chasing something he couldn't watch first — maybe it sounded creepy, but if there was anything he'd learned from his father, it was that knowledge was king. There wasn't a single thing he couldn't have so long as he just knew how it walked, talked, and behaved. It was the reason why it was so difficult to get ahold of his mother, who'd never so much as looked at him as a child. Beautiful, cold, and la puta loca was the way his father described her, and Andreas supposed he was right. It was why he'd constantly had a string of his own perras locas trailing behind him. Mommy issues and all that, he knew subconsciously that he found a sick pleasure in entertaining women who could hardly keep it together without a line or a pack of cigarettes. Fortunately for him, his father's ownership of Flash gave him ample access to women with issues beyond his control. But even as he saw her first, he knew immediately she wasn't his usual type. He liked leggy blondes, uncontrollably nubile and innocent, and yet here she was, a mousy little brunette with smudged liner down to her cheeks, desperately cosplaying as a young twenty-something. He had to give it to her, she did a good job of it, but there was something defeated in her that he wanted to bite into and tear apart. Maybe it was the puking in public, or the dry spots of concealer on her temples, the pretty little manicure that was at least three weeks old. Everything about her screamed calculated, but only to a mere pathetic degree that he couldn't decipher. He watches her bravely swipe at her mouth with the sleeve of her coat and plop down in the bench next to him, pawing at her beat-up bag for something — gum, probably, so he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stick, holding it out to her. "Here," he says, lip curling up. "Looks like you need it.

[nightingcle]

LIKE always, he catches sight of her first. Andreas didn't like chasing something he couldn't watch first — maybe it sounded creepy, but if there was anything he'd learned from his father, it was that knowledge was king. There wasn't a single thing he couldn't have so long as he just knew how it walked, talked, and behaved. It was the reason why it was so difficult to get ahold of his mother, who'd never so much as looked at him as a child. Beautiful, cold, and la puta loca was the way his father described her, and Andreas supposed he was right. It was why he'd constantly had a string of his own perras locas trailing behind him. Mommy issues and all that, he knew subconsciously that he found a sick pleasure in entertaining women who could hardly keep it together without a line or a pack of cigarettes. Fortunately for him, his father's ownership of Flash gave him ample access to women with issues beyond his control. But even as he saw her first, he knew immediately she wasn't his usual type. He liked leggy blondes, uncontrollably nubile and innocent, and yet here she was, a mousy little brunette with smudged liner down to her cheeks, desperately cosplaying as a young twenty-something. He had to give it to her, she did a good job of it, but there was something defeated in her that he wanted to bite into and tear apart. Maybe it was the puking in public, or the dry spots of concealer on her temples, the pretty little manicure that was at least three weeks old. Everything about her screamed calculated, but only to a mere pathetic degree that he couldn't decipher. He watches her bravely swipe at her mouth with the sleeve of her coat and plop down in the bench next to him, pawing at her beat-up bag for something — gum, probably, so he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a stick, holding it out to her. "Here," he says, lip curling up. "Looks like you need it.

THIRTY-THREE years on the planet and ten since Tatiana's been in the modeling industry, but last week was the first time she'd entertained the idea that maybe, this career wasn't for her. What was she doing, anyways, managing nepo-baby talent, whose parents were wealthy enough to buy them a shiny new modeling contract with Flash, but never quite enough social capital to get them on the runways, like they wanted? All they did was complain and squack in her year about how they'd overslept and missed their casting for catalog, because god forbid they appeared on a Forever 21 billboard and not on January's issue of Vogue. " Cassie — Ali Strickoff did Forever 21, and Cora-Lee Ang — or wait, did she do Urban Outfitters— " It didn't matter. To Cassie, it was Chanel Resort or bust, and was she working for them or for her? Tati had to bite her neither, I fucking work for Flash Model Management and I can fire your bulimic little double-zero ass whenever I want, and placated with her usual noncommittal hums of agreement as she shuffled over to the 28th St, dreading the mess that waited for her in the Upper East Side. No doubt Cassie had let the lettuce and midnight Chinese takeout containers rot in her fridge, and it'd be up to Tati to clean it out. All while Cassie ranted, and she'd be left wondering how it was that an 18-year-old brat could live in a two-bedroom loft in the UES while she was left to rot in her little Murray Hill studio, amongst all the midtown trash. It was all a tragedy, really. She used to share a place with her ex, Caio, and together, their measly NYC salaries managed to pay for a sweet little one-bedroom in the Village — it did stink of sewage, and she'd find the occasional rat crawling through her trash, but she loved the place to pieces. There was so much energy and creativity and art, but she knew it was only a matter of time. They'd been on the rocks for ages; Caio had wanted a family, and Tati had, for the fifth time, regained her motivation to work, and make something out of those little seventeen-year-old brats. It took a weekend away in Paris for her to come back to a half-empty apartment and a goodbye note, and then another whole week to realize that he was serious about leaving her. That was three years ago, and she wondered now, if she'd taken up the offer to go back with him to Sao Paolo, she'd have a sweet little child now. She'd have a husband. She'd be a mother. The thought was enough to put a chill down her spine. Tati always considered herself a bohemian, what with her low-rise archival Gucci jeans and outlet Margiela tops. If she became pregnant, god forbid, goodbye everything she'd ever owned. Her secondhand Bellini couch would no doubt be replaced by some Ikea monstrosity, and her teakwood shelves would be strewn with flashy FisherPrice blocks and Made in China plastic crap. She'd seen too many women, even the coolest it-girls succumb to the monstrosity of motherhood, laughing away wet baby burps on their cashmere and milk-stained CDG tops. Dear god, the more Tati thought about it, the more she felt sick. The R shook with the shuffles of locals and tourists alike, the smells of Santal 33 wafting in with the tourists munching on street kebabs. It smelled like diapers and shit, mixed in with morning breath spittle, and she bolted up from her seat, clutching her purse as she pushed past, tumbling out of the train and over the first trash can she sees and vomits her lunch of Sweetgreen and espresso, burnt rubber and piss covering whatever disgusting odor emanated from her. She breathed out, standing up as she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her coat, trying not to look at the tourists eyeing her like an alien with three heads and plopped down on the bench, pawing through her purse for the TicTacs she knew she kept for emergencies.

[nightingcle]

THIRTY-THREE years on the planet and ten since Tatiana's been in the modeling industry, but last week was the first time she'd entertained the idea that maybe, this career wasn't for her. What was she doing, anyways, managing nepo-baby talent, whose parents were wealthy enough to buy them a shiny new modeling contract with Flash, but never quite enough social capital to get them on the runways, like they wanted? All they did was complain and squack in her year about how they'd overslept and missed their casting for catalog, because god forbid they appeared on a Forever 21 billboard and not on January's issue of Vogue. " Cassie — Ali Strickoff did Forever 21, and Cora-Lee Ang — or wait, did she do Urban Outfitters— " It didn't matter. To Cassie, it was Chanel Resort or bust, and was she working for them or for her? Tati had to bite her neither, I fucking work for Flash Model Management and I can fire your bulimic little double-zero ass whenever I want, and placated with her usual noncommittal hums of agreement as she shuffled over to the 28th St, dreading the mess that waited for her in the Upper East Side. No doubt Cassie had let the lettuce and midnight Chinese takeout containers rot in her fridge, and it'd be up to Tati to clean it out. All while Cassie ranted, and she'd be left wondering how it was that an 18-year-old brat could live in a two-bedroom loft in the UES while she was left to rot in her little Murray Hill studio, amongst all the midtown trash. It was all a tragedy, really. She used to share a place with her ex, Caio, and together, their measly NYC salaries managed to pay for a sweet little one-bedroom in the Village — it did stink of sewage, and she'd find the occasional rat crawling through her trash, but she loved the place to pieces. There was so much energy and creativity and art, but she knew it was only a matter of time. They'd been on the rocks for ages; Caio had wanted a family, and Tati had, for the fifth time, regained her motivation to work, and make something out of those little seventeen-year-old brats. It took a weekend away in Paris for her to come back to a half-empty apartment and a goodbye note, and then another whole week to realize that he was serious about leaving her. That was three years ago, and she wondered now, if she'd taken up the offer to go back with him to Sao Paolo, she'd have a sweet little child now. She'd have a husband. She'd be a mother. The thought was enough to put a chill down her spine. Tati always considered herself a bohemian, what with her low-rise archival Gucci jeans and outlet Margiela tops. If she became pregnant, god forbid, goodbye everything she'd ever owned. Her secondhand Bellini couch would no doubt be replaced by some Ikea monstrosity, and her teakwood shelves would be strewn with flashy FisherPrice blocks and Made in China plastic crap. She'd seen too many women, even the coolest it-girls succumb to the monstrosity of motherhood, laughing away wet baby burps on their cashmere and milk-stained CDG tops. Dear god, the more Tati thought about it, the more she felt sick. The R shook with the shuffles of locals and tourists alike, the smells of Santal 33 wafting in with the tourists munching on street kebabs. It smelled like diapers and shit, mixed in with morning breath spittle, and she bolted up from her seat, clutching her purse as she pushed past, tumbling out of the train and over the first trash can she sees and vomits her lunch of Sweetgreen and espresso, burnt rubber and piss covering whatever disgusting odor emanated from her. She breathed out, standing up as she wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her coat, trying not to look at the tourists eyeing her like an alien with three heads and plopped down on the bench, pawing through her purse for the TicTacs she knew she kept for emergencies.