The faint beams of the rising sun crawl across Sunset Strip. The neon signs blink. A car honks. Loud music spills from the clubs onto the pavement. The morning air is warm, not yet as stuffy and hot as it will be in a few short hours. Most parts of the city are still in deep slumber. And yet on this street, the lights have never been out.
A backdoor opens and two tall, blonde women stumble out. They're giggling, and their step is unsure, their movements sloppy. One has a tough grip on the other's leather jacket, slightly tousling the fabric. The other one is gripping a bottle of vodka, the cap long lost, some of the sticky liquid having spilt and covering her hand.
They stop by the side of the road. One of them pulls the other closer by her hips, and their lips find each other. The kiss is messy, and the taste of alcohol lingers on their lips. The one holding the bottle brings her free hand towards the other's neck, keeping her head in place as she traces her lips down her jaw and towards her exposed collar-bone.
She feels nothing for the other woman besides the thrill of intoxication. She has touched many women in the last weeks, months, years. The blonde who is currently panting into her ear is no different from them except for the fact that they've established a sort of routine. It's not attachment that keeps her going back to her, rather habit and the addiction of needing to feel worthy of her time when the blonde screams her name. Like the drugs she had sworn off months ago but that she can't seem to quit, either.
She kisses her way back up her neck and their lips meet again.
"Go home with me?", the blonde whispers when they separate to catch their breaths.
She studies her face closely, then sighs.
Karlie knows she has to end this soon.
***
As soon as she steps off the stage, she makes a beeline towards the washroom. The loud cheers from the audience blare in her ears, making her dizzy in the sudden silence. The door closes with a thud, and she is alone.
She splashes cold water onto her face and wrists. She knows they have to leave soon and there will be no time to shower. Her blonde hair is curly and wild, and she pushes the bangs out of her face as she stares at her reflection in the mirror.
There is a knock on the door.
"Are you alright? We have to get on the bus." Her brother's voice is gentle, but urgent.
She sighs and shouts a response, but doesn't move from her spot.
She has felt strange lately. The past two years have been a whirlwind. She just finished her first headlining tour, the sold-out venue full of people singing the lyrics to her songs back to her like in a dream. Outside there are reporters and fans waiting for her, hoping to get an autograph and a picture of her waving and smiling. She should feel happy, but all she feels is this deep, vast loneliness threatening to open up and swallow her whole.
The guilt seems to close around and strangle her throat. Hot tears pool behind her eyes, and she is too afraid to blink lest they spill over and ruin her make-up. Over the course of the tour, she has felt more and more like she's betraying everyone. She writes and sings all these songs about love, about staying together despite the odds.
In truth, she has never experienced anything resembling romantic love. She draws her inspiration from her own imagination, from books and movies that fill her with the longing she has never actually felt towards anyone she has ever kissed. She desperately wants to feel like the girl on stage that sings her songs every other night. And yet, she wouldn't even know where to begin looking for love.
The knocking becomes incessant.
Taylor takes a deep breath, then opens the door. She's ready to go home.
