Phone on 4%. Makeup still on. Someone in my bed whose name is in my notes as “Tuesday?” That’s the job. That’s the life.
Author: justchelsea
Same boy. Third time. He makes better coffee than she does, which is the only reason Sophie hasn’t changed the locks. I give it a fortnight.
Sophie, Mia, leftover pizza, three phones face-up. They made me go through every name from Saturday in order. I did. Then I asked who was taking me out next weekend. Silence.
Driver clocked me from last Thursday’s drop-off in Dalston and asked if I was going back to the same block. I wasn’t. Still tipped him. He’ll tell someone.
For twenty minutes. Then I asked for an Uber and a cigarette. He looked confused. I looked done. Next.
Saw her again at a birthday in Shoreditch. Last time she was crying in a bathroom about him. This time she’s on his shoulders. I have the old voice notes. Tempting.
Not me. The girl whose boyfriend was inside with his hand on my waist. I gave her a cigarette. I’m not a monster.
They asked how my Saturday was. I said I went home with a man whose name I still don’t have. Eggs went cold.
Official night ended at two. Ours started in the kitchen with whatever was left in the freezer. Ten people. One speaker. The neighbours will survive. Probably.
Everyone filed out. We didn’t. The sprinklers never came on. Anti-climax in every sense except the one that mattered.