how soon is now? || w. a rose [i/v]

YOKO I

After the VMA's I feel like all we did for the rest of 1989 was just kind of fuck around. Not much of the album changed, we didn't really bother passing through more ideas. Bits and pieces of production but nothing more than that. It was pretty fun, I think we all got to explore LA a bit more than we had before and it was a good enough rest.

// England's finest: The autobiography of Mind the Gap, the band that saw the British invasion through brit-pop and redefined the meaning of English music, 2013. CH MIYOKO 10

"Fuck," Yoko said, scowling as her eyeliner slipped in her hand. She hated the set up of this bathroom, having to lean over the too large sink and perch awkwardly in front of the mirror and fumble through a too large make up bag. She hated having to store her brushes with her lipstick and blush and mascara, everything mixing together in one.

She could feel the hairs brushing past her nose, crinkling in annoyance. She pulled her slipping hair clip out, dragging it out and putting it back in place. Everyday she bothered to straighten her fucking fringe and everyday she would find a new annoying kink or another loose strand.

The bright blue tiles were obnoxious and the light buzzed annoyingly, surely Geffen could pay for something better than this. It was October and it was no longer warm yet it wasn't cold either, so she was in a perpetual struggle on what to wear. Her sweaters were too hot and itchy but her tops left her with shivering arms and red fingers.

She missed her pale pink tiles and white grout, bright mirror and warm ceiling lights. She missed the foggy and grey skyline and the damp air, she was so sick of neon lights and palm trees. Her kitchen with the rice cooker and bamboo mat, her magenta kettle and smooth granite. She struggled to recall the last time she had even bothered to cook anything of real substance, it was all pre-packaged or stuck in a styrofoam box. Mum would tut in disappointment, all the years of cooked breakfast, lunch and dinner wasted.

There was a clash on the floor, and Yoko realised that one of her brushes had rolled onto the floor. It was even titled the cheap fucks, just a squeaky linoleum. As she bent down, she heard a sharp snap.

"Motherfucker!" Her pointer nail had pulled away, the acrylic separating from the nail bed. She really did huff then, throwing the brush into the porcelain of the sink and grinding her teeth.

Everything about this fucking City was shit, the bars were full of half high wannabes and topless strippers, serving even shittier alcohol. Everything for sale had a stupid markup price and even the fucking nail salon couldn't do their one job right.

"Fuck," She repeated, pulling at her cuticle to inspect the damage. It was pretty brutal, nearly fully pulled away at the top and barely clinging on at the bottom. It had been one of the rare occasions that her and Andy had gotten the same colour, a deep aubergine.

The experience hadn't even been fun, the tech pushing down too hard with the buffer as well as cutting her cuticles way too short, all the way chatting away about pointless gossip to her friend. Yoko hadn't commented about how the blue eyed woman had looked her up and down, eyes pinching when they met her own even though her blood had boiled over.

She hadn't been called Chinese, and they hadn't talked to her in slow simple English, so maybe that was a bonus. That was all anybody could ever describe her as when she first met them. It didn't seem that Andy had fared much better either, constant "ows" coming from her chair.

She missed Claire from the corner salon, with her bright magenta eyeshadow and freely styled afro, her cheery accent and gentle touch. Her nails never lifted when Claire did them.

Yoko missed a lot actually, she even missed the tube stations with the turnstile that always jammed, the traffic lights that took forever to turn and the uneven cracks in the concrete paths.