timothée chalamet buys me a drink

it's ok we're on speaking terms

Timothée Chalamet buys me a drink. Whiskey sour. He didn’t ask me — only glanced at me and said I looked like a girl who’d appreciate a bit of tang. Whatever the fuck that means.

To him, I look lovely underneath the dim lights. My big eyes are not cat-like — they are large like a rabbit’s. Striking because they are so dark, reflective, and shiny. Striking because they reflect the warmth of the bar lighting. You can’t tell the iris from the pupil.

Timothée thinks that this makes me look innocent. He can’t tell me why. He said he was drawn to me because I was sitting alone, book splayed on my Maison Soksi¹ tights. He likes them. I tell him it makes me feel like I’m cosplaying one of the teenage girls from the Italian fantasy Disney comic W.I.T.C.H². He doesn’t know what I’m talking about.

When he tells me I look innocent, I think it’s because several thoughts pass his bombarded psyche when he looks at me. It’s unimportant, but he knows better than to say it out loud. I am perfect and soft and wet and more compliant than he thought I’d be, so he puts my name in his phone.

When he looks at me, he adores me. Lips pouting against his fingertips while my eyes drag — onyx bleeding into the pockets of my aegyo sal³, smudging with cosmetic charcoal.