“Are you fucking kidding?”
“Oh darling, you know the deal – you’re a coathanger for their Art.”
“It’s a bit of tin … barbed wire … tape?”
“Get over it. She asked for you – and only you!”
“Seriously? Anybody could wear this!”
“Apparently not.”
“Who’s here?”
“Vogue, Avant-garde. Apocalyptic cli-fi is hot!”
“Five minutes!”
Sharp edges dig in. My scrawny black flesh scrapes and bleeds. The spotlight irradiates me as I sashay past make-up, suits, heels, money. My pupils dilate and the whites dazzle through narrow gaps. Honeyed skin gleams through gashes of old bullet holes.
Applause. Champagne. Front cover.
Silence. Rations. Invisible.
