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Same old

#16

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She was sitting at the same pizza joint as last year when she was home, going through the same old bullshit meeting with their tour manager and some of the crew. Business as usual but everything felt static - same long ass monologue about sold out shows and stadium dates and this is gonna be the biggest tour yet, trust me. But she wasn't listening, she never did. She much rather untangle a white sewing thread or monitor their private jet carbon emissions (aspirationally), hell, she would even write geometric proofs for why lines are, in fact, lines. At least that had a beginning and an end. Unlike this conversation and unlike her life, which just felt like a long loop of smile for the cameras, say thank you, sign here, take the money, shut the fuck up.

She just stared out the window, where some poor old bastard was getting his ass handed to him by the wind, his cheap umbrella flipping inside out like a broken bird. He kept fighting it, cursing, yanking, trying to will it back into shape, like he still had control. Like he wasn't just another dumb fuck losing to the weather.

The manager kept talking, congratulating himself on being heads and shoulders smarter than everyone else as he hawked his genius plan with ten pats on the back. Headlining festivals. Private caterers. Money so good you'll choke on it.

Zoey blinked slowly and lit a cigarette she wasn't supposed to have. The guy didn't even flinch. Probably used to it, used to Zoey being tuned out, floating somewhere else while everyone around them foamed at the mouth about career defining moments. She makes a living from being mouthy and this is the type of bullshit she won't allow it anymore.

"Fuck all that."