Stayed over, used the expensive one, left the cap off. Then asked if I wanted to “do this again sometime.” I said maybe. I meant no. My skin looks better than his manners.
Category: Flat Life
Sophie judges in silence. Mia leaves evidence. The kettle knows too much. Shared walls, shared leftovers, shoes that are not ours in the hall. Domestic chaos with better lighting than it deserves, frankly.
I did shout. Sort of. She still got an eyeful, went scarlet, then made tea like nothing happened. Mia is never letting either of us forget this one.
Of him. Of the texts. Of my “I’m coming home I swear” lie from 2am. Democracy is dead in this flat and I’m the president.
She didn’t even knock this time. Just turned the radio up and sent a group-chat screenshot that said “congratulations I guess”. Fair.
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.
It was on the toaster. She held it up like evidence. I said it was fashion. She said it was a cry for help. Both true.
Not a condom. Worse. The afters bar tab with two names on it and a time stamp that proves I said I was “already in bed.” She’s weaponising it at brunch.
There are rules. White towels are not for strangers you met at 1am in Shoreditch. I found makeup on the good set and I’m being very normal about it.
It now includes “remove strange men before 9am” and “buy more loo roll after weekends”. I initialled it in lip gloss.