He watched her from the rooftop.

She was wearing a red dress, probably designer, definitely expensive. It was probably supposed to make her stand out, but it made her look like all the other women. Her blonde hair was curled in ringlets that were no doubt crispy to the touch after being covered in an entire can of hairspray. She laughed loudly as she talked to one of the men in a tuxedo. It didn’t matter who; they all looked identical, and acted like identical snobs.

A waiter offered her more champagne, and she eagerly grabbed a glass off of his tray. She had already had two; he was surprised that she still managed to walk in a straight line when the man pointed towards the dance floor.

He’d seen enough. She was no longer the girl he had joked with in the back of the classroom during lecture. She had given into the glamor, subscribed to everything they had mocked together.

He walked away from the edge of the roof, kicking at a crumbled piece of concrete. The door to the stairs stood ajar, but he walked past it, wandering aimlessly to the other side of the building where he stared at the city lights below. He stood there until a chilly wind reminded him that he had left his sweater in the car.

He tried to not look at it as he passed it, but the building where she was celebrating fame and fakery demanded his attention with the glint that glanced off its garish amount of gold decorating the outside façade, and he found himself staring. As soon as he realized, he snapped his gaze away to search for his car.


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