I'm Not Leaving // lrh

37 || read my mind

brooklyn heights, new york
10:50pm

A

"We'll be five minutes, sir!" Shay exclaims.

She nearly falls face first, palms out onto the dirty city pavement, that's how fast she is trying to get out of the borderline still moving vehicle.

"You have two! I'm leavin' the meter runnin'!"

Shay and I are too distracted to speak. We're straightening out garment bags, making sure our arms are looped into the straps of our work totes and vintage designer purses.

"Just go, here. For your trouble, kind sir." Derek pays the driver since his two best friends are clearly the worlds worst multitaskers right now.

The three of us rush up the steps of Shay's building. I curse her and yet want to kiss her for having a working elevator. Even though we don't have to climb up an endless flight of stairs, we're still somehow out of breath when we reach her door.

I don't have time to take in her new funky, bright orange velvet couch or the T.V that's being used as a rack for different fabric swatches. We're on a serious time crunch.

Our work day started at six this morning. And we only left the building to go to the hotel who's rooftop we're using for the party. And even then we were there for hours upon hours. Tweaking the food and drinks menus, the music, the table settings, the chic ash trays we picked out while antiquing, the oh so important mood lighting and so on and so forth. Then we hauled ass back to the office to work on our next season mood board and our outfits. I swear, we haven't had a breath of fresh air in way too many hours.

And even though we're short on time, Shay still found it in herself to be the hostess with the most-ess. She cracked a window, let us use her shower. She made pre-game cocktails. (Champagne with raspberry lemonade.) And even pre-rolled joints while she waited for my body shower to be done.

Shay's party outfit was a pink tulle baby doll dress we worked on for weeks. It cinches at her chest, has dramatic, poofy sleeves, and compliments her warm skin tone so well. We had to sew it shut closed on her just now, but the end result is so fucking worth it.

Derek's wearing his sexy pajamas. Also known as: a two piece suit made out of black silk. Yeah. It's basically pajamas. He's a genius.

To compliment Shay's baby pink, my dress is a powdery blue. We didn't think of it at the time of this dresses conception, but now, I have a wicked Miami tan to go with it. It's a halter top, goes down to my ankles. And that's not my modesty coming through. There's a dangerously high slit. We made it with a smooth, seamless material that's cool to the touch, it hugs every contour of my body just right.

Makeup's done. My fragrance is picked out. My pumps are strapped into place. I slide thin and chunky gold rings on my fingers. I have a tres chic miniature purse to go with my dress. And my hair's up, a la Pamela Anderson if she was a brunette who's face framing layers wave when she does her hair in a still damp bathroom.

We took tequila shots in the kitchen, packed our purses with joints and cigarettes and lipstick and tiny bottles of liquor. We sacrificed Derek's Hermes scarf to the fashion gods, and said a little prayer.

"Ugh! We should've kept the cabby." Shay groans when we've made it to the end of the block we've yet to hail a cab.

"So he could charge us a million dollars for waiting forty five minutes? No thank you." Derek whines, his heeled Chelsea boots click clack louder against the sidewalk for dramatic affect.