'Men are always saying I need to put myself out there more, that it’s hot when women move on men. But I can’t think of anything worse,' says one Vogue writer.
The rain is pouring down either side of the smoking area so hard that it reminds me of rain in films. Of that scene inwhen he makes out with Mary Jane upside down in the alleyway. I say that hoping it will distract everyone at the table from the conversation we’re having, but it doesn’t work. “You’re a mystery,” my friend Tom says, leaning over to press the heater button again. “You say you want love but you don’t act like it.
I go to a club the next night and the lights flash white and I can feel the purr of the music in my ribcage. My friend and I snake through the crowd arm-in-arm to a place where there’s more room. Someone shoves into me, and my plastic cup crumples into itself, and I have to pop it back out again. It’s like slow-motion when I see him, and I’m glad he thinks it’s as big a deal as I do that we’ve bumped into each other.