I change outfits three times.
Which is ridiculous and I know it is ridiculous and I change a fourth time anyway because the third option looked like I was trying and the whole point is to look like I am not trying, which, now that I think about it, is itself a form of trying, so I am back to square one standing in front of my wardrobe in my underwear at six fifteen feeling genuinely annoyed at myself.
It is a meeting, Camille. A strategic meeting between two adults navigating a shared problem.
I put on dark jeans, a simple black top, my good coat.
Done. Neutral. Functional. Absolutely not trying.
I grab my bag and leave before I can change again.
Rhys lives twenty minutes across the city in a building that is quiet and well maintained with a lobby that has no doorman, j
