I've kept some of of our notes to one another, a page dedicated to Lucky! ☆, and our playlists for each other. There's more, check out the Navigation sidebar for all those pages! I hope you like it. (✿◠‿◠)
Flick. Flick. Flick. "Come on." Flick. "I swear to God-" Flick, flick. Unlit cigarette between her lips, Mickey tosses the empty Bic at the exposed brick, where it bounces away and skids down the alleyway floor. An unlucky night at the bar, and now she has to stop at the drug store before calling it a night. The cigarette taunts her and she nearly sends it the way of the lighter. The metal door in front of her whines a little as it's pushed open, the crush of gravel underfoot announcing a tall butch in a ... well-loved suit. Before turning to Mickey she cranes her head to check the alleyway, long neck stretching into a choppy, likely home-executed undercut. Mickey's cigarette is still unlit. "Got a light?" "Hey, have you seen a male impersonator out here?" Mickey grunts. "I dunno, got a light?" The butch sighs, put upon, then pats herself down until she draws out a box of matches. Mickey holds her hand out for them, but instead she's beckoned close to light herself on a lit matchstick. "I'm not a femme," she grumbles, not obeying. The butch shuffles closer, putting the box back in her suit pocket. "And I'm not wasting a second match on a stranger, do you want the light or not?" She does very much want the light so, humiliatingly, she curls into another butch and cups her hand around hers, quickly torching the end of her cigarette with the last light of the match and drawing back. On the inhale, she relaxes and leans back against the alley wall. "Appreciate it," she says, smiling finally at this lanky younger butch. She coughs as Mickey exhales, then puts a hand on her hip like the nellies uptown. "A friend of mine is due on stage, she's my height, your complexion, a red suit and a kohl moustache on her upper lip-" "Yeah she's in the dunny around the side," Mickey interrupts, taking the moment to observe. The butch turns around to close the metal door, jacket riding up on a pair of well fitted pants. When she gives a reluctant "thank you," Mickey nods in acknowledgement, taking in her handsome features. Boy, if she was a femme... She's quickly left alone in the alley, however, slowly exhaling and considering going back inside. She isn't much into the drag shows, too loud and baudy, and the turnout tonight hadn't brought anyone she was interested in taking home. The usual crowd - exes, friends, drags, some boys. Perhaps a new club was worth checking out, with new people. There's commotion nearby, then the male impersonator comes barrelling down the alleyway in a pair of heeled boots. The door whines again as this person throws it open, hobbles over loose gravel and slams it shut again. Mickey takes another drag. So dramatic. Instead of overlapping voices, a single, unintelligible voice rings over the suddenly hushed crowd and the sound of the piano leaks into the alley. It turns into a sweet, familiar melody - Secret Love by Doris Day - and the singer starts performing. That's her cue, Mickey thinks, inhaling the last of her cigarette before tossing the butt into an opalescent puddle. Calamity Jane had come out over a year ago and performers were still milking that song. Time to head home from this club, she thinks to herself. Possibly for the last time. There's footsteps behind her as she starts for the mouth of the alleyway, and she checks behind her to make sure it's not a man. It's just the butch from earlier, making her way towards the door. She's just turning her back to the place once again when a voice calls out, so she awkwardly aborts the movement to lock eyes with this butch. "Not coming in to see the drag?" Mickey shrugs, digging her hands into her pant pockets. "Not my thing." She goes to turn around but she keeps talking. "You payed 3 shillings and sixpence to drink a finger of rum, chat with your friends and smoke outside?" Mickey finally turns all the way around, intrigued. There's a pause before, in a low voice, "Were you watching me tonight?" "I was watching everyone, I'm new to town and wanted to see what kind of people come to this club. C'mon, you really don't want to throw back another drink and hang out with some male impersonators?" Her voice is steady but her ears are turning pink in the yellowed light above the door, and she can't meet Mickey's eyes. Mickey shakes her head, turning back for the last time. "Early start at the office, good luck." She hears the whine of the door and feet on gravel. "Thanks, see you around I guess." "Not likely," Mickey responds, just as the door pulls shut. She takes her gloves out, gets in the car, and makes her way to the drug store for a new lighter. The Fiat is a few payments away from being hers, and it's still purring beautifully after 3 years. It's in Adrian's name, not her own, because there wasn't a car salesman in the country who'd sell it to her without a "boyfriend" present to sign the paperwork. The work functions, family reunions, parties, weddings, and funerals where she'd turned up in a dress and a wig to play the girlfriend had all been worth it for her 1951 Topolino. The wig she has on is making her ears itchy, but her job required dozens of investments just like it - ladies suits, lipstick, heels, gloves, and stockings among others. The wigs were worth it to peel off at the end of the day and run her hand through the cropped hair on her head, or feel a femme's nails scratch thoughtfully down the shaved sides. Parking nearly makes her late, and it's with burning cheeks that she hobbles down the cobblestone path in her blasted Mary Janes, hating hating hating every stupid piece of women's clothing that is so easily prone to malfunction. By the time she's inside, said hello to the doorman and been sent through, she has to quietly regain her breath in front of the elevators. Her blouse has stayed in place but her skirt has to be readjusted, her garter belt pulled higher, and her bra pulled down. All before clocking in. There's a rattle as one of the elevators shudders to a halt, the doorboy sliding it open for a pack of young men to get out. It's empty when she gets in, and it's not until the door closes she's adjusting her skirt that she hears a quiet, muffled laugh. She looks up, actually takes in the doorboy, and pales. Though her womanhood has been very well shrouded, Mickey can nonetheless recognise the butch from last night, watching her in her secretary garb. "Where too, ma'am?" She asks, and Mickey nearly fumes. Her worst nightmare - her nocturnal life interacting with her work life - enacted by this upstart young butch with a man's job. Instead of reacting, however, she takes out a cigarette and lights it, then turns to the girl. "Floor 8." While the butch turns the lever to take them up, Mickey takes advantage of having a woman at the helm - she quickly undoes her blouse to readjust her bra, then peels her pencil skirt up far enough to fix her garter. The butch seems spooked by this development, but nonetheless keeps her eyes on the floor numbers like a perfect gentleman. Once her clothes are back in place, she offers the cigarette to the woman. After all, she'd rather be a secretary in a chair all day than stand up and pull doors to and fro. "I don't smoke, thanks though." The butch is blushing a little, the tips of her ears turning red. Mickey grunts, checks her watch and smiles. Bang on time. Once the elevator pulls to a stop, she waits for the doors to open and flicks the butt behind her. "Thanks darl." The butch clears her throat. "My name is Lawrence." Mickey doesn't turn around. By the time the clock has ticked around to 5, Mickey's getting a crick in her neck and a throbbing pain in her back. She sets a cover on her typewriter and rubs her eyes, eager to give her body a break. All she hopes is that the butch - Lawrence, she'd said - isn't still working the elevator. Her hopes are dashed when, after stamping her timecard, she calls the elevator to the 8th floor and Lawrence, suppressing a yawn, opens the door for her. "Lawrence," she grunts. "Ma'am," comes the response. "Mickey is fine." Lawrence shrugs and closes the door, hand on the lever. "Ground floor, Mi- uh, ma'am?" Mickey is about to roll her eyes, but catches her boss on the other side of the elevator door, so she straightens up before Lawrence lets him in. "Michelle," he nods, "Lawrence." "Ground floor, sir?" "No, third." The ride is quiet, the both of them rigid until Lawrence pulls the doors closed behind their boss's retreating back. Once the elevator shifts back downwards, Lawrence sneaks a smirk in Mickey's direction. "Thought drag wasn't your thing?" Ugh. "Did you spend all day coming up with that?" Mickey bites, taking her gloves out of her purse. Lawrence deflates a bit - probably did spend all day thinking of some witticism, the poor thing. "Look, do you want a tip? Something for the bus ride home?" Lawrence pulls the lever and crosses her arms, finally snapping apparently. "Look, maybe tomorrow you don't take my lift, okay? There's two on either side and the blokes there are pretty decent." "I wouldn't want to put a hard-working woman out of a job," Mickey teases. "No, I uh- I ought to be getting home. I'll try to pass your lift by in the mornings." "Thanks." Lawrence pulls the lever, finally. The elevator shudders and ... nothing. "Hit it again." Lawrence does, and it doesn't respond. On her third attempt, something metal audibly snaps and they both take a fearful inhale. "Look, it's fine just uh, we're on the first floor I think. I can get the doors open." She can't, as it turns out, whatever is jamming the elevator has affected the doors too. Her earlier thought had been wrong, Mickey thinks. 9 hours of being dressed to the toe in women's garb, in an elevator with an undercover butch that has
