He turned up at 1am with Tesco flowers and a speech. Mia let him in. I filmed nothing, which is growth. The group chat the next morning was unhinged. She says she’s fine. She isn’t.
Category: Confessions
I tell on myself first. The texts I should not have sent, the names I forgot, the mornings I still wore last night. Honesty is messy. That is the point, and the traffic.
He asked me not to write it. I said I wouldn’t use his name. I didn’t. Everything else is fair game. That’s the deal.
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.
For twenty minutes. Then I asked for an Uber and a cigarette. He looked confused. I looked done. Next.
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.
It smelled like him and a club and bad decisions. Sophie asked if I was “keeping souvenirs now”. I am. Obviously.
We never use real names. This week he’s “Mayfair Suit.” Last week he was “Wrong Uber.” Sophie clocked the pattern. Said I need a hobby that isn’t collecting aliases. Rude. Accurate.
Posted the wrist, the drink, not the face. Three people guessed wrong. The right one liked it anyway. Delulu works.
Recited last Friday to a girl at a lunch who turned out to be his sister. She laughed like it was funny. It wasn’t. I still finished the anecdote. Commitment to the bit.