Picrel: me at the beach with my louis vuitton bag after selling the last vestiges of my undergarments to corporate america.
The grit of the boardwalk stuck to the soles of my sandals, a fine, almost talcum-like powder of pulverized shells. Each step was a soft crunch, a private rhythm against the distant, percussive sigh of the waves. The setting sun was a bruised plum, bleeding into a horizon the color of a faded denim jacket. Its light, thick and golden as honey, caught the patina of the brass hardware on the bag perched beside me on the bench. The monogram canvas, a pattern of beige and brown that had once represented an unattainable apex, now just looked… expensive. Expensive, and slightly out of place, like a tuxedo at a clambake.
I tilted my head back, letting the salt-laced wind tease the loose strands of hair from my messy bun. It smelled of brine and fried dough and the faint, sweet decay of seaweed. A gull cried overhead, a lonely, piercing sound that didn't quite fit the serene tableau. It sounded like a question.
My fingers traced the outline of the familiar V's and L's on the bag. The leather strap, warm from the sun, was smooth against my skin. I remembered the moment I bought it. Not the ceremony of walking into the store, but the quiet, vibrating click of the "Confirm Purchase" button on my laptop at three in the morning, fueled by cheap wine and the hollow ache of a successfully closed quarter. It had been a reward. A totem. Proof that all the spreadsheets, the endless video calls, the sacrifice of my Sunday mornings to "align on Q4 objectives," had been worth something. A heavy, silent middle finger to a world that had told a girl from a town with one traffic light she wouldn't make it.
And now? Now it was just a bag. And the woman beside it was just… free.
Alright now someone else continue on with the story, don’t forget to post a picture too.
>>23723240anonymous
