I upgraded my tattered duffel at a mall designed to intimidate the meager. The open-air plaza brimmed with Centurion cards, Maxi bags, and red-bottomed heels—a training ground for my new life. I intermixed with anesthesiologists, portfolio managers, and top-earning OnlyFans creators, peering into displays until I saw it: the exorbitantly priced silver box of my carry-on dreams.
“RIMOWA,” the sign read. Three sizes of my future sat stacked like depreciating assets beside an ethnically ambiguous mannequin dressed for globe-trotting. I waltzed in, procured the hard-shell weekender, and wheeled it down the walkway, reciprocating nods of approval from passersby. For a moment, I wondered if they knew where we were headed—me and my anodized best friend, off to a life of wanderlust. If not, I was certain we’d meet again.
The movers took everything I deemed worthy of my sun-filled future—2,000 pounds of clothes, accessories, art, and vitamins. The rest I sold for quarters on the dollar to tightf…
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