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One
Magnolia
Hipsters aren’t my favourite people. They used to be my least favourite kind of person, but they’ve actually been usurped.
They’ve been replaced by — arguably — a subset of the hipster that is worse than what came before, like a mutation of a virus that’s a bigger pain in the arse than the original. This subset is often a lot more grubby and, unfortunately, usually at least semi-naked. I think they’d call themselves ‘free-spirited.’
I see them standing topless in fields that they’re probably trespassing on because they can hardly own property by working four hours a week as an artisan barista. Their arms usually seem to be thrown up in the air, there’s knots in their unkept hair, and they’re probably holding sparklers as they use grainy, overexposed filters to make it look like their photos weren’t actually taken on what I can only imagine is a cracked iPhone 7 but instead some old-timey camera they traded a poem for.
When I see them I just want to pop on some latex gloves, hand them a shirt, give them a good shake and yell, “WHAT ARE YOU SMILING ABOUT YOUR JEANS ARE FROM H&M FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.”
I’ve met a lot of these people in New York, actually. Many a free spirit on the subway — which I’d never take. There’s a stop by my apartment though, so I see many a miscreant pass by.
It’s lonelier here than I thought, and I did think it would be lonely.
It couldn’t have been any other way, I knew that — leaving it all behind. Leaving him.
No packing up, no goodbyes. Just the first flight out of London to get as far away from it all as quick as I could.
It’s been nearly a year. Not exactly, but almost.
And everything is different now.
There’s an incessant knocking at my front door.
I live on the top floor of 995 Fifth Avenue. I chose to live here because it looks like London, or about as much as a 16th floor apartment in Manhattan can look like London.
The knocking is louder and more insistent than the standard knock-knock-knock a regular person would make. This is an aggressively bright and rhythmic knock. Knock-knock-knock. Knock, knock. Again and again.
It’s obvious who is on the other side of the door before I even open it. What isn’t obvious is why she’s here or how she got upstairs without me buzzing her in.
I swing open the door and there she is — arms folded over her chest, brows knitted behind her Cartier Trinity cat-eye sunglasses in the tortoise shell which she then shoves on top of her head and glares at me.
“Took you long enough,” Taura Sax growls.
“I was upstairs,” I shrug. “And I wasn’t expecting company.” I stare down at her feet. “Do you really dare wear those Balenciaga monstrosities in my presence?”
“I know, I know,” she groans.
I shake my head at her wildly. “They look like—”
“—Geriatric shoes,” she jumps in. “I know.”
“Have you no pride, Taura? No sense of self-worth?”
“Alright—” She rolls her eyes. “I’m wearing a shoe you don’t like, I didn’t sell my baby…”
“I might have preferred it if you did.”
“They’re just very comfortable.” She shrugs as though she’s innocent.
“So is nudity, Taus, but there’s a time and a place. And for these—” I stare pointedly at her Triple S Clear Sole logo-embroidered leather, nubuck and mesh sneakers. “—that place is a rehabilitation unit for the elderly after a nasty fall.” I cross my arms and eye her with suspicion. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
She pulls in her little Brics carry-on and follows me to the kitchen.
“I thought you’d need me,” she shrugs.
I wrap my white Juliet cashmere cardigan from Khaite tighter against myself. “That’s very thoughtful.”
