#&jinee.

&. ji nee / @pcrkjinee​ event: st patrick’s festival. location: the temple bar.

It was a bad decision to have followed the whims of an invitation she hadn’t been expecting, and stone cold sober in a crowd of drunken Angelenos who fancied that they could outdrink the Irish, Chloé had come to realise that she needed a drink. Or thirty. Whatever would kill her faster. She had managed to fight her way to the bar before she had been caught, surrounded by camera flashes picking out an easy target separated from the herd — wasn’t this a private event? — and she swore, holding up her lukewarm Guinness as a shield, struggling to breathe. “Motherfucker! Leave me alone, fuck off!”

WHAT WOULD MY MUSE SAY ABOUT YOURS? / send

💌 for a letter my muse would write to yours

Chloé Leiden                  19/3/2018to Park JI NEE

Ji Nee—I’m attaching the renderings I told you about earlier, look over them and let me know which one stands out to you. If you have any issues with any of the designs, or you can’t choose between them, you can let me know about that too. I’m not going to be in the office tomorrow, I’m going out to a site in Bel-Air, but if you’d like to meet up I’m back for a few hours on Thursday the 22nd. Or, we can meet somewhere else. Whatever is best for you.

And for the record, fuck him.He who shall not be named.

I’m glad you’re okay.

Next time you want to get wasted, call me first. We can get fucked up together.Or something.

Chloé 

💋 for what my muse would say to the person trying to woo your muse

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen her on a date. Or with a boyfriend— or, for that matter, a girlfriend —so I’m really not the person to ask. You should probably ask one of her bodyguards. Ark? Arkin. That’s it. He could give you better advice than I ever could. 

In the beginning, was impossible to think, much less breathe, in a room where she escaped no one’s gaze. Isolation was unavoidable: Chloé had been forced to carry her laptop outside, to sit in the thick of the smoke and nictotine on the office’s terrace — somehow, it was far easier to breathe there, even though her lungs burned — in order to accomplish anything. Then, her colleagues had begun talking to her again, giving her quick nods and even quicker questions, as though they had remembered that once, they had liked her, that they knew her, supposedly.

She still preferred to work outside, in the haze, chin lifted high, choosing to meet the eyes of the firm’s clients through the windows that covered the floor instead of being forced to when they walked by her desk. From her high tower she could spot them as they walked into the building too, like little mice skittering on the concrete below, and if she had wanted to she could have picked them off one by one. 

There were three mistakes: one, she didn’t see Ji Nee Park coming. Two, she looked up and saw the it-girl, glowing and golden as ever, speaking to one of the firm’s better-known architects. Three, Chloé went inside to meet her. “Is she here for me?” She addressed the room first, then the woman. “’JNP’. Interiors proposal due,” she quoted from an email she had never fully processed, “I didn’t know you were working with us. Are you working with us, or are we just a bid?” She had fought to earn that little ‘us’ back. Ji Nee’s celebrity, a bitter reminder of Chloé‘s own, could make her lose it.