Diet Coke. Warm, flat, sweet enough to coat the teeth. It always tastes like lying. At parties, I drink it without thinking. Sometimes I take a sip and taste the night I told a man I was twenty years older than I am. He didn’t blink, just kept talking. Something about someone he knew from Berlin, or Ibiza, or Berlin again. His voice loops around itself. Less conversation, more echo.
His beard moves when he speaks—black, thick, maybe flecked with glitter. Or maybe that’s just my eyes. The whole room shimmers with it. Glitter clings to the floor, to the backs of hands, under fingernails, behind ears. It doesn’t leave.
I’d grow a beard if I were a man. A neat one, trimmed to the jaw. I’d stroke it while I think. Let it collect soup.
He’s still talking. His voice bounces off the walls, slower now, like it’s grown a bit tired of itself. Something about his son. TEN, ALREADY SCOUTED, GONNA GO FAR. I don’t ask.
The DJ mixes on vinyl. A bit excessive for a house party. The needle slips, the crackle builds, the drop never lands. Someone shouts, IS THIS UNDERWORLD? Maybe. It’s hard to tell beneath all the interruptions. He keeps pulling the headphones on and off like props, twisting knobs with the sort of deliberate concentration only seen in people who’ve mistaken hobby for identity. He looks like he means it. But you can’t fake instinct. This is someone else’s taste, worn thin. Something handed down like a badly folded flyer.
Near the speaker, a boy with a tambourine spins in slow circles. His eyes are closed. A girl on the sofa leans toward him, her skin dewy with sweat. A small cherub inked on her shoulder blinks under the lights. They shout at each other through the static. Everyone speaks in blur.
Something spills. My soles stick—wet suction as the floor tries to kiss me without conviction. The air smells like blue raspberry vape and body heat, something cloying and artificial curling just beneath the nose. The walls shine with sweat and leftover sound. Lights cycle too fast. Blue, red, green, red, that teeth-greying blue again. Silver makeup burns at the cheekbones and itches along the temples. Someone knocks into me. No apology.
YOU DON’T LOOK 40.
CLEAN DIET. GOOD SURGEON.
Glitter settles in the crease of my eyelids. His pupils are blown, the whites of his eyes gone pink. Wrecked. I watch his mouth move. The eyes always tell too much. Maybe that’s why men stare at lips instead. It’s safer there. Nothing flickers.
He’s back on the subject of his son. FOOTBALL ACADEMY, GUARANTEED FUTURE, GOLDEN TICKET. I nod and picture slipping a pin into his temple, watching him deflate like a hairy, stupid balloon. I smile and say nothing. I am bored.
Should I be offended by how easily he believed me? Maybe it was the smile lines or the way I held his gaze. He didn’t see the acne. I told him I ate well and he nodded. Prawns last week, halloumi the week before, parmesan whenever I want. I haven’t touched chicken in years. The labels shift—pescatarian, vegetarian, neither—but I follow them anyway. Not really for health. I just like the order. Rules make things simpler. They give the lie somewhere to land. Sometimes I wonder if I’ve built a self or just picked a convincing pattern.
Alter egos offer insulation. You send someone else in your place and let her take the impact, especially when men are too drunk, too close, and too eager to believe. Let them meet the girl in silver glitter, the one who doesn’t carry her keys between her fingers, who doesn’t send her location, who doesn’t change her shoes at the station. She smiles, she agrees. Then she’s gone. I sip vodka Cokes and let her do the work.
The girl with the cherub tattoo is still talking, her mouth moving slowly as though pushing through water. Something about her dissertation. Art history, maybe trauma theory. My drink is warm. I’ve lost the straw. Tambourine boy is asleep now, chin to chest. His hat is on the floor. Someone’s ashed into it.
In the kitchen, there are chocolate Cheerios in a salad bowl with no milk. On the counter: three olives, a hot pink lighter, a single earring that isn’t mine. Everything looks like it’s waiting to be explained.
I check the mirror again. Same angle, same lighting. I press the glitter lower on my cheek. Nothing to fix. Just a frame to adjust.
It’s not the lie I love but the shape of it. The way it rounds the edge of things. Truth splits when handled too directly.
I think I’d function better as a man. Not tragically—just logistically. There’s a kind of quiet they’re allowed that I can’t seem to reach. Men speak and people stop to listen. They interrupt and no one flinches. I watch what they get away with. How silence works differently for them.
There’s a kind of woman I watch. She moves like the room belongs to her; she doesn’t touch her face when she talks; her laugh lands; her glass stays full longer. I copy what I can. A gesture, a vowel shift, the weight of a pause. I try them on in pieces.
I’ve never wanted to be seen by men the way I see women. Sometimes it looks like desire. Often it looks like rehearsal. I borrow the phrasing. The glass held loosely in one hand. The casual confidence. I hold these things lightly and try not to press too hard.
She had a purple tooth gem. A faux fur jacket, fraying at the collar. When she turned, her look landed clean, like she didn’t need anything from me. I told her I had the same jacket. I didn’t. But I wanted to sound like someone she could believe.
The club helps. Faces blur mid-dance. Everything looks borrowed under the lights. When my song comes on, I scream it. Something shakes loose. I don’t remember the words after.
In the bathroom, mascara on the tiles. A girl kneels in front of another, their hands clasped like a psalm. I don’t know them. Foundation drips into the sink. I touch up my face with my finger and say nothing.
Outside, girls sit on the steps with bare legs and lighter burns. They pass secrets in low voices. Someone asks if we’ve met before. I say yes.
YOU STUDY FRENCH?
OUI.
It’s the only word I know. But to him, I’m a fourth-year French girl now. My friend once told a guy she studied politics in Edinburgh. She doesn’t. We’ve both learned how easily a single word becomes a whole persona. How quickly the right tone shapes belief.
A can rolls across the floor in a long arc, its hollow clatter cutting through the music. No one turns. The room stirs for a moment, then settles back into itself.
I find my coat in the pile. Glitter clings to the lining. One sleeve is turned inside out, but I leave it.
Outside, the street is still. The air smells faintly of onions and petrol. I check my phone. Nothing. I light a cigarette I don’t really want. The lighter sticks. I try again. On the fifth flick, the flame catches—small and stubborn.
I walk. The pavement is wet. My boots drag. Streetlights shimmer in puddles that refuse to reflect anything properly. My breath clouds the air in front of me. The cigarette tastes flat.
Behind me, the music continues. Or maybe it doesn’t.