When the Weekend Runs Out of Weekend
By the time Sunday night arrived, I was running on fumes and the stubbornness that passes for energy after a weekend full of events, invites and conversations that stretched past the point of politeness into something actually interesting. I could have gone home. I knew I wasn't going to.
Warehouse 21 on a Sunday has a different vibe. The crowd exists of people who simply refuse to let go yet. I respect that. I was one of them.
Alyssa had claimed her corner like she'd inherited it. Silver hair, smoke drifting past ice-blue eyes, a large beer bottle cradled with the casualness of someone holding a cup of tea. Her ink tells stories her face won't. She looked at me the way she looks at everyone, like she's already decided she finds you mildly amusing, and you should consider yourself lucky.
I always do.
Layahna was on the floor, probably because she demanded the spotlight. That botanical print dress alive with every move, hands raised, nails catching the light, her whole body operating on a frequency the rest of us were just trying to tune into.
I watched her for a while before I even thought to lift my camera.
Riri I found somewhere between the two. Space buns, plaid skirt, a slouchy knit sweater with lace underneath it like a secret. A cigar tucked between her lips, which I appreciated. Same energy as Alyssa, different vehicle. She had this quality of looking completely at ease without announcing it.
No performance. Just presence.
I didn't shoot much. Some Sundays you put the camera down and just exist in the room for a while. This was one of those Sundays.
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