Cat meets me at a coffee shop in New York City's East Village looking like a punk rock Tinker Bell. She's wearing a black lace leotard, a stretchy self-made miniskirt and tiny white ballet flats -- the ones I tried to talk her out of months ago. "You need a leotard," she purrs.
I go inside with her credit card to get us coffee -- large with whole milk for her, small black for me. Cat is feeling inspired and spewing story ideas. She misses writing beauty. "I love your new stuff," I assure her. "I hope your book will sound that way."
We scroll through our phones, reading each other's emails and text messages out loud. Cat puts on my shoes in preparation for a photo. She flags down an attractive stranger and coaxes him to take a picture of us.
"Our parents just divorced," she explains. "They would love to see this."
We finish our coffees and walk further downtown. "You have to get some flats, honey," Cat calls over her shoulder. Even in my walking heels, I'm a few paces behind her.
We spot a bodega beauty window and stop to make a video.
Nars Semi Matte Lipstick in Heat Wave, $24: "You just dab it on like a stain. I don't even look in the mirror."
Maybelline Eye Studio Master Drama Eyeliner, $7: "I've been doing a brown eyeliner for summer and just a tiny, tiny bit of it. No mascara! You don't need an expensive eyeliner."
France Luxe Hair Clip, $34: "It's not prissy. It's punk rock, but it's still girly."
It's getting late and we both have writing to do. "I want to lend you a dress, but my apartment is too messy," says Cat. My favorite clothes are the ones I've borrowed from her -- a Jil Sander top and Ksbui denim jacket. I convince her that the messy apartment doesn't matter; I've seen it before and mine is messy too.
She perches in front of her closet pulling pieces she thinks I would like. A bleach-stained Balenciaga t-shirt, a backless Alexander Wang dress, a pair of Topshop shorts.
"These still have the tags on," I warn her.
"Just take them!"
Before I leave, I ask her how this story should be written. "However you want, babe," she says. "I'm not your editor."