Concrete Bloom

The chipped paint and spray can residue are the truest form of luxury here, aren't they?
He thinks this is irony. He’s a collector of ‘experiences’, that boy, and I am currently his latest acquisition – an aesthetic accessory to his curated discontent.
I met him at the gallery opening last month, naturally. Surrounded by canvases screaming for attention while he barely glanced at them, eyes already scanning for something more… pliable.
His touch isn’t what it seems. It lingers too long on my skin and doesn't seem to notice its own greed.
But even a creature like him can offer warmth when the city chills you to the bone. And I have become practiced in extracting value from things that want nothing more than to use me up, so I’ll take his heat while it lasts.
This arrangement is temporary; the expiration date is already circled on my calendar.

Editor: Vogue Assassin