Heights

Friday night.

The clock ticked to 7 p.m. and all she could think of was the wine list at her favourite bar in the city. The grapes were calling her name, so much so, that she didn’t even want to paint her pucker with a tint of red. The overdose of wine would give her the perfect fire engine pout.

Dior’s finest was flickered on the lashes, Nars’ opulent powder was brushed across the cheeks and a dab of beetroot was pressed against the top of the eyelids.

It was finally time to kick the boots off and put on her shoes with the extra ladder. Well, she needed the height; she needed it to stand out from the sea of body-con-clad-silicon-boobed women. No, not in just a ‘look at me! look at me!’ way, but more so in a ‘I need this to have anyone come talk to me’ way.

This is probably the right time to mention this, but she wasn’t an overly spectacular-looking girl. She had some sort of sharp features, but they never stood out amidst her blonde bombshell girlfriends. You could call her ‘cute’, ‘chirpy’ or even ‘animated’, but you wouldn’t call her ‘hot’ or ‘sexy’. She didn’t have the body of a pornstar, neither did she have the voice of an angel, but she sure had the mind and personality of a rockstar. She could hold a conversation of high intellect with enough wit, charm and humour to leave the other person speechless. So proud of it, that she almost relied on this very trait of hers, because this is what made her so special and stand out from all the fake tanned carrot legs around her.

But her lack of physical affluence killed the attraction.

No measurement of heels, be it the most expensive pair of Steve Maddens or Alexander Wangs, could solve the case of rejection.

She was born with it… and she was going to leave the world with it. With or without the gaze of a plus one.

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