Sometimes I catch a glimpse of her. And I can’t breathe for a second. I remember her shaky voice, milky skin, cocktails. She is impeccable. Underneath it all though I know her stockings are laddered. And no matter how much red lipstick, or it-girlish-ness, or phone numbers, she’s not perfect. 
If I had of known that all my friends would so quickly couple up and settle down; then maybe I would’ve taken the time to have more drunken shenanigans, hungover spooning sessions, dinners and tram rides. Those little moments without having to think about the partners and the grown-up world.
With you it’s always nice hotels. The beds are firm and there are always matching lamps. We shrug off suits and open bottles of wine and have an hour of tacky romance. It used to make me feel whoreish, but now it’s just part of the fabric of the day. 
