Snapshot 52

Hi, Hey, Hello!

This post was supposed to happen last Friday, I had it mostly formulated in my head and everything, and then I went for cocktails and Mexican with R and it didn’t happen then. So it’s happening today. I also randomly default wrote this in first person, which I don’t tend to do with this series in particular, but I just sort of went with it.

There was an issue with a pair of boots.

On one side was the stylist camp who had declared them clumpy, out of fashion and impossible to style. On the other was Ryan arguing that they were black, slightly military in style and he had seen them been styled in about a million different ways without issue.

In the middle, almost quite literally, was me. Sat in an uncomfortable director’s style chair in a powdery blue dressing gown that was falling off my shoulders with my hair being pulled through a pair of hair straighteners and pretending that it didn’t bother me every time the person doing my makeup told me not to blink while he applied eyeliner.

The argument started when I pointed out that none of the shoes that had been ‘carefully selected’ for me weren’t going to fit because apparently the notion of a woman with size 9 feet is so alien that they thought they must have misheard and so all the shoes standing in a neat row against a wall were a size 6.

That left me with the pair of boots currently being violently discussed around me.

“They were so ugly.”

“They had no finesse.”

“They wouldn’t work with anything they had planned.”

“They looked clunky.”

“They would look so out of place.”

Apparently the stylist camp were going to skate around the fact that none of this would have been a problem if they hadn’t ignored the measurements they had originally been given. The guy jabbing at my eyes with an eyeliner brush had finally finished his task and then asked me to look up. Three seconds later he jabbed me in the eye with a mascara wand and I blinked against it, making the whole thing worse. He took a step away from me and I felt the piece of hair that had been meticulously straightened fall back into place.

Ryan and his sparring buddy seemed to notice a shift in the atmosphere as silence fell over them. I slowly rose to my feet, one of my eyes screwed shut as it burned to open it too wide, pulled the drooping dressing gown up over my shoulders and walked through to the bathroom. I shut the door, but didn’t lock it, and stood in front of the mirror.

The eye that had been prodded with bristles was red and watery. Only half of my hair had had the loose wave patter burned out of it. The make up on my face looked cakey. I opened the bathroom cabinet and pulled out my makeup wipes, methodically swiping it across my face revealing the slightly spotty, oily skin that I recognised.

It was as I was bent over the sink, sleeves of the dressing gown tightly rolled up, cleaning my eye that Ryan knocked on the door once before slipping into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

‘I’ve fucked up on some level haven’t I?’ His voice was timid. I turned off and levelled my one eye gaze at his reflection.

‘Yes. No. Maybe a little.’

‘A perfectly coherent response.’ I laughed, a short bark that I hadn’t expected.

‘It’s not so much you that’s fucking up, it’s just this whole situation is fucked up I guess.’ I turned around and looked at him properly.

‘You can still back out of this.’ He tried tentatively, trying to gage my reaction to this whole new aspect of my life.

‘I don’t want to back out Ryan. I just don’t want to be told that my skin requires an awful lot of coverage to get the “look” just right. Or to have someone section my hair off and run straighteners over it until it reaches the brink of burning off. I don’t want to have someone aggressively prod at my eye with an eyeliner brush and repeatedly be told not to blink like I’ve never applied make up before. I don’t want to be stabbed in the eye with a mascara wand by someone that is not me. And I really don’t want to be wearing this itchy as fuck dressing gown.’ I tugged at the fluffy collar and breathed. It felt like a weight had been lifted.

‘Is your eye okay?’ He asked.

‘It stings, but yeah, it will be fine.’ I pointed at it uselessly and finally let it blink open properly.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why? You didn’t poke me in the eye.’ I feebly joked.

‘Yeah, but I put you in a situation where you got poked in the eye.’

‘No you didn’t. It’s not like you held me to ransom about going to this thing. What you should be sorry for is having an argument about me on my behalf like I’m not sat five feet away from you and am not capable of fighting my own battles.’ I leaned heavily against the sink and crossed my arms.

‘Oh,’ his face paled slightly and he started fidgeting, ‘I didn’t think about that. I guess I just…I don’t know what I thought.’

‘It’s mostly fine. Just don’t go making a habit of it, I suppose.’ My arms loosened slightly to lope around my waist.

‘I can get rid of them if you want.’ He suggested.

‘What good what that do?’

‘It would mean that there is little risk of you getting poked with a mascara wand again and you can wear whatever the fuck you want.’

‘Is that not kind of rude though?’

‘So is completely disregarding the measurements you’re given for ones that you want to style to. I had a look at some of the stuff on the rail, and while you would look amazing in them all, none of them are gonna fir you.\

‘Why, what size are they?’ I asked, slightly scared.

‘6 or 8.’ I don’t know how to describe the feeling that washed over me, but something uneasy settled in the pit of my stomach.

‘What will your management say?’ I tried weakly, but my mind was made up.

‘Fuck em. I mean not literally, but in this instance.’

‘Ry, don’t be stupid.’ Ryan shrugged and walked over to me.

‘I’m not being stupid. Call Dylan, or Lola, and tell them you need something to wear for tonight. I’ll go and get rid of all that in there and then we’ll get ready. It’ll be fine.’ I knew that he was right, but in true me fashion I was slowly shutting down and by the look on his face he could I was too.

‘Or, you can call Dylan and tell him to bring over all the junk food he can manage and we just watch Netflix instead.’ I took a deep breath and wiped at some of the stray water that was dripping from my eye.

‘I’ll tell him I need something to wear.’ It came out as almost a whisper.

‘Okay then.’ He wiped at my cheek ad grabbed hold of my hand, leading me out of the bathroom and into our room. I immediately discarded the dressing gown in a heap of hideous blue in the middle of the floor and walked over to my jeans, draped over the end of the bed, and pulled my phone out while Ryan slipped back out of the room.

Ten minutes later, after a much needed pep talk from Dylan, I wandered back into the now mostly empty living room, the row of too small shoes gone leaving only my criminally unfashionable boots still standing to attention against the wall. I’d thrown on one of his t-shirts that was too big even for him and tied my hair up into the messiest of top knots to deal with at a later moment.

When Ryan saw me, from where he was standing mindlessly in the middle of the room, he walked over in four confident strides and kissed me. The kind of kissed that bled pent up emotion into it and caught me a bit off guard. My knees buckled slightly but his arms wrapped around my back and kept me stable. My fingers tangled themselves in his messy hair like it was second mature and just fell into him.

I don’t quite know how long we stood like that, slowly drinking each other in, but he eventually pulled away and I could feel his heavy breathing brush against my cheek.

‘I love you.’ He whispered into the small space between out mouths.

‘Yeah, yeah. You too.’ I replied, releasing my hands from his hair and pointing at the boots over this shoulder.

‘You know I’m wearing those shoes tonight right?’ He laughed, his breath tickling over my neck as he dropped his head down to rest in the crook of my neck.

‘Oh I fucking know.’ He mumbled into my skin as my arms curled themselves around his shoulder.

Parentheses count: 0. See you tomorrow!

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