Standard High Line.

by s.m.

standard highline

[before this: wine bar.]

It would take longer for him to get downtown than for her to shoot across to The Standard, and she was grateful for the geography because it would give her a chance to pull herself together.  Back in the Liberty Suite, she tied her hair back and washed her face with cold water, in an attempt to sober up.  She brushed her teeth, then carefully reapplied her makeup, adding a red lip stain to cover the swollenness she feared Selim would be able to see on her lips.  She heard him open the door and rushed out of the bathroom to greet him.

“New lipstick?” he asked.

“I went shopping.  Do you like it?”  It wasn’t a lie.  It just wasn’t entirely accurate.  It came to her so easily, she thought.

He held her shoulders, looking at her face for a moment.  “Is that all that’s different?”

“I never wear red,” she mumbled.

“I like it,” he said, and his voice sounded wolfish to her, or his teeth looked sharper, something about him seemed more predatory.  Like he was circling her, a fawn in the woods.

He played with the dark green strap of her bra, running his finger under it, snapping it against her bare shoulder where her sweater had slipped off.  She smelled her own breath, minty freshness covering the whiskey and the wine and the sweet lingering marijuana taste of Justin’s kiss.  She didn’t know what would happen if she kissed Selim now.

[after this: rich girls.]