I knew he had to go the second I saw the cap sitting next to the sink instead of on the bottle. Not in the bed. Not in the kitchen. The sink. That little white lid on its side like it had done a hard night too.
The expensive one. The one I ration. The one I hide behind the ordinary cleanser so Sophie stops borrowing it when she has a date. He’d used it. Left it open. Then wandered back into my room and asked if I wanted to do this again sometime.
I said maybe.
I meant no.
My skin looks better than his manners.
How he even got a key to the bathroom
Right so. Saturday. I was only meant to be out for two drinks in Soho because Mia had a plus one going spare and I had a dress that needed a night attached to it. Two drinks became four. Four became that stupid little bar with the sticky stairs where everyone pretends they are not checking who else walked in.
He was tall in a way that photographs well and dull in a way that only shows up after the second cocktail. Worked in something with a deck. Or a pitch. I stopped listening when he laughed at his own story. That is usually my cue to leave. I stayed. I always stay when the lighting is doing me a favour.
We shared a cigarette outside even though I do not really smoke. I just like the pause. He called me Chels like we had already agreed on intimacy. I let him. It is easier than correcting a man you have already decided is coming home with you.
Uber. Parsons Green. The quiet walk from the curb to the front door where you both pretend this is casual. Mia’s light was on. Sophie’s was not. That is the score I check before I put my key in.
I told him to take his shoes off. He did. Point in his favour. Then he kissed me in the hallway like we had all the time in the world. We did not. Shared walls. Thin doors. Sophie once texted me from her bed, two metres away, to say she could hear me laughing and it was putting her off sleep. I laughed quieter after that. Sometimes.
The morning is where men lose points
He was fine in the dark. I will give him that. Present. Not in a rush. Did not call me the wrong name. Did not try to turn it into a speech about connection. Good. I cannot do a speech at 2am. I can do a body and a bit of chat and then I want the duvet.
Sunday morning is a different exam.
I woke up first. That is my habit. I like to see the room before the other person starts narrating it. Makeup on the bedside. Earrings on the floor. His watch on my book. I clocked all of it and went to the bathroom because my face felt like last night.
That is when I found the bottle.
Lid off. A smear of cleanser on the porcelain. The pump pressed like he had been trying to get the last of someone else’s product out of it. I stood there with last night’s mascara still under my eyes and thought, you did not even ask.
Look. I am not precious about much. I will share a fork. I will share a cigarette. I will share a bed with a man whose surname I only saw on the contactless receipt. I will not share the face wash I paid a stupid amount for in Liberty because some girl on my For You page said it changed her life. It did not change my life. It did change my T-zone. That is enough.
He had used it like it was the free stuff you get in a hotel. Two pumps. No towel under it. Water everywhere. The little theatre of a man who thinks bathrooms are communal by default.
I put the cap back on. Tight. Then I looked in the mirror for longer than I needed to, which is what I do when I am deciding whether I am annoyed or just performing being annoyed for later content. Both, if I am honest.
Sophie was already in the kitchen
She had that face on. The one that says she heard the front door at an uncivil hour and has been waiting to collect tax.
Tea?
Yes.
She did not ask who. She never asks who first. She asks how the night was, which is the same question in a nicer coat. I said it was fine. She looked at my neck. I pulled my robe up. She smiled into her mug.
Mia emerged ten minutes later in socks that are not hers and said, without looking at me, that she hoped he was at least fit in the daylight. I said he was fit enough. That is a sentence I use when I do not want to lie and I do not want to advertise.
Then he appeared.
Shirt from last night. Hair doing that thing men think is charming. He said morning to Sophie like he lived here. Sophie said morning back like she was already writing the group chat.
He asked if we had coffee. We did. He made himself one. Used the oat milk. Fine. Then he went back to the bathroom and I heard the tap and I already knew.
When he came out his face looked slightly too clean. That squeaky, stripped look you get when you use a product that was not meant for you. My cleanser is not gentle. It is not for a man who washes with supermarket gel and calls it a routine. He looked pleased with himself. I looked at the bottle again even though I had already closed it.
Do this again sometime
He sat on the edge of my bed to put his socks on. That is always the scene. Socks. Reality. The bit where last night has to become a sentence.
I had a good time, he said.
Yeah, I said.
We should do this again sometime.
There it was. The soft close. Not a plan. Not a day. Just the little hook people leave in you so they can feel decent on the way to the station.
Maybe, I said.
He smiled like maybe was a yes. It is not. Maybe is the polite version of I already know how this ends. Maybe is what I say when I do not want to do the speech either. I am not cruel before noon. I am just not available.
He kissed my cheek. Dry. Fine. Asked for my Instagram even though we had already found each other at 1am like everybody does. I told him I would add him. I will not. Or I will, and I will never watch the story. Same thing.
At the door he paused. Thanks for last night. Thanks for the coffee. He did not thank me for the face wash. Of course he did not. Men do not thank you for the things they assume were included.
I closed the door and leaned on it for a second. Not because I was sad. Because I wanted the flat to be mine again.
The inquest, obviously
Sophie waited until the stairs had gone quiet.
Well?
He used my face wash, I said.
That was the headline. Not the sex. Not the Soho bit. Not the fact that I let a near stranger sleep on my good pillowcase. The face wash.
Mia screamed laughing from the sofa. Sophie did not. Sophie said that was actually worse than the time the other one used her toothbrush. I had forgotten about the toothbrush. I had blocked the toothbrush. Thank you Sophie.
I sat on the counter and ate toast that was not mine. Explained it properly. The cap. The smear. The do this again. The maybe.
Mia said I should have said no to his face. Sophie said I should have said no to the stay over. I said both of them could do one. Then I admitted they were not entirely wrong, which I hate doing before I have done my actual skincare.
Because here is the thing I will not dress up. I liked him enough for one night. I did not like him enough for my bathroom. There is a difference and I clock it fast. The men who ask before they touch your stuff are rare. The men who treat a flat like a hotel are everywhere. I keep inviting them in anyway. That is on me. I know it is on me. I still want the story more than I want the principle, until the principle is sitting on my sink with the lid off.
What I actually care about
People think I am joking when I say I would rather a man be good in bed and bad at texting than good at texting and sloppy in my bathroom. I am not joking. Sloppy is a personality. It leaks. If he cannot put a cap back on a bottle he has just used without asking, he is not going to remember the thing I said about my week. He is not going to clock that Sophie hates strangers at the breakfast table. He is not going to be careful with anything that is not his.
I do not need careful forever. I need it for the eight hours he is in my space.
Is that vain? Probably. I look in the mirror too much. I know I do. I reapply in taxi windows. I judge a night by whether my lipstick survived it. I also pay for my own flat, my own products, my own life. The least a guest can do is not treat the place like a free sample stand.
He texted at 4pm. Last night was fun x
I left it. Then I opened it. Then I wrote yeah it was. Then I deleted yeah it was. Then I sent a photo of my coffee instead. No caption. Let him work. He liked it. He did not follow up. Perfect. The universe doing a tidy little fade out.
Mia asked if I was going to see him again. I said maybe. She said I always say maybe. She is right. Maybe is my favourite word after fine. Both of them keep the door closed without slamming it. I do not like slam. Slam is for people who want a scene. I want a paragraph.
Anyway
I washed my face properly once he had gone. Two pumps. Cap on. The whole ritual. The expensive one smelling like itself again and not like a man who thought he was being intimate by using my things.
Sophie put the good cleanser back behind the ordinary one without being asked. That is why she is allowed to judge me. She still puts things back.
If he reads this, which he will not, because men like that do not read past the first photo, here is the review. You were fine. The night was fine. The coffee was fine. You do not get another morning in this bathroom. Buy your own face wash. Put the lid on it. And next time you stay in a girl’s flat, ask before you touch the stuff that costs more than your Uber.
I said maybe.
I meant no.
And my skin, for the record, looks better than his manners.
