Wouldn't it be great to be Dorian Gray, just for a day

I bought the soundtrack to Pan's Labyrinth the other day. Fucking gorgeous it is too. That haunting lullaby winding its way throughout every track. But it was the two tracks at the end that I had to pay £2 extra for, that made me fall in love. They're like Pan's Labyrinth reimagined as film noir with that same lullaby played on sultry brass and conjuring up some Spanish entanglement. It makes me want to dance.

I stood before my large mirror, my hair wild from the shower and my cheeks burning from my perfume and the rum. My dress that had been discarded for over a year fitted me snugly and swished seductively with every little movement. I slid in stocking feet and felt faintly French. I debated over whether to wear a bra or not, I wasn't sure how much leeway the top had and I played with my eyeliner while I made up my mind. I felt like being a girl and my friend giggled at me when I showed up since I've worn a skirt the last three times she's seen me after five years of jeans.

My hair dried straight with little encouragement, a good sign. I wound the blue material around my fingers and pretended I can dance in the mirror. I'm a vain little thing but I can imagine I'm somebody else while the gold frames my twirling body. I needed a cigarette and a tragedy to complete my fantasy. A cynic of a man who loves me violently. But I was running late and I ran out the door, wrapped in my long coat and regretting my outfit as the skirt billows out behind me. A man shouts something at me from his van and I acknowledge him with a flick of my finger and skip up the stairs to my train.

The further away I move from my mirror the more the girl slips away from me. By the end of the night I'm drinking beer, making crude jokes and odd noises down the phone to Rob. But when I walk home sweeping through the dark under the stars, I get all romantic and let my mind wander far away. I felt like dancing or running or doing anything else that wasn't walking home alone down this street of geriatrics to my bed but alas, my night was over. Soon I was curled up with Oscar Wilde in an old tshirt and the romance was gone; tucked away for another night out.