They asked how my Saturday was. That was the mistake. Or mine, depending who you ask.
It was one of those late sittings in a place that thinks exposed brick still counts as personality. Parsons Green adjacent, which means the coffee is fine and the bill is not. Sophie had already cut her eggs. Mia was late on purpose so she could arrive with a story. I had a Bloody Mary that was mostly garnish and a face that said I had slept, which was a lie I was prepared to maintain for about four minutes.
Then Sophie did the polite thing. “So. Saturday. Good?”
I said I went home with a man whose name I still do not have.
The eggs went cold. Not immediately. There was a little pause first, the kind that makes the waiter look over and then think better of it.
What I actually had
I had a first name that might have been Tom. Or Dom. Or something with a closed mouth in the middle. I had it in my notes app as “navy jumper, good hands, lives near the overground.” That is not a name. That is a missing persons report.
We met at the end of someone else’s night. One of those Soho places where the lights come up and everyone suddenly looks like they need a glass of water and a solicitor. He was funny in the specific way men are funny when they know they have about twenty minutes left before you decide. I decided. We got an Uber. He asked if I wanted to come up. I said yes because the alternative was the night bus and a conversation with myself I was not in the mood for.
In the morning he made coffee that tasted like it had been invented by a man who lives alone. I left before the second cup. I did not ask him to spell anything. He did not offer. That felt mutual and strangely tidy.
I thought that would be the end of it. Then brunch happened, as brunch does, and I opened my mouth.
The table did that thing
Sophie put her fork down like it had personally disappointed her. Mia made a noise that was half laugh and half “oh we are doing this now.” The fourth girl, Lucy from Sophie’s work, who I like but do not owe a cleaned up version of myself, stared at the chilli oil as if it might save her.
Nobody said “you what” out loud. They did not have to. The silence did the work.
I took a sip of the Bloody Mary and it was too much celery. I kept going anyway. That is the problem with honesty. Once you start, stopping looks like shame, and I was not offering shame with the hash browns.
“I know how it sounds,” I said. “It sounds worse than it was. Or exactly as bad. I have not decided.”
Sophie said, “you could have just said you stayed in.”
I could have. I have done that before. Stayed in. Watched something. Invented a headache. The lie sits easier with poached eggs. The truth makes people rearrange their faces.
I did not want easier. I wanted the thing that actually happened to exist outside my phone. If I keep sanding the edges off, I end up with a life that looks like content and feels like nothing.
Why I did not have his name
People get stuck on that part. As if the missing name is the scandal and the sex is a footnote.
I did not have it because the night did not require it. We were not building a file. We were finishing a Saturday. He knew my first name. I knew the building had a lift that smelled like someone else’s laundry. That was the contract.
Would it have been classier to ask in the kitchen while the kettle boiled? Yes. Did I think of it? Also yes. Did I then decide I liked the story better without the neat little label? Unfortunately yes.
Mia said I do this on purpose. She is not entirely wrong. A name makes it a person you have to text. A navy jumper makes it a paragraph. I am in the paragraph business. I can admit that without pretending I am proud of every invoice.
Lucy asked if I was safe. That one I did not mind. I was. I got home. I told the group chat I was in a cab even though I was already in his hallway. The usual small lies that keep your friends from ringing the police and keep you from feeling like a cautionary tale.
What they wanted me to say
They wanted a cute Saturday. A dinner. A film. A boy with a surname and a plan for next week. Sophie in particular likes a narrative with handrails. She dates men who send calendar invites. I love her for it. I also cannot perform that version of the weekend when I still have someone else’s shower gel in my hair.
Brunch is supposed to be a soft landing. You order the thing with hollandaise and you agree that last night was “a bit much” and then you move on to who is buying a flat. I kicked the landing out from under us. The hollandaise congealed. So did the mood, for a minute.
Then Mia leaned in and said, “was he at least fit though.”
That is why I keep her.
He was. Not in a way that would survive a hard launch. In a way that survives a dark bar and a well timed joke. Brown hair. The jumper. A mouth that looked better after he stopped trying so hard. I said as much and Lucy finally laughed, which I took as permission to keep eating.
The bit I did not say until the bill
I almost liked him. That is the part that makes the namelessness feel sloppy rather than chic.
In the lift he asked what I was doing with my Sunday. I said brunch with the girls. He said “don’t tell them I don’t have a personality before noon.” I nearly asked then. The question sat on my tongue and I swallowed it with the last of his terrible coffee. If I asked, I would have to spell my own surname too, and then we would be two people with homework.
I told the table that version as well, because I had already ruined the eggs. Sophie softened. She always does once she can see the girl under the performance. She said I should have written it on my hand. I said my hand was busy.
Lucy paid for the extra toast I did not eat. Peace offering. Or pity. I will take either.
After we left
Outside it was that bright, unhelpful London sun that makes last night look worse. Sophie linked my arm like she does when she is choosing kindness over a lecture. Mia lit a cigarette she would not finish. Lucy checked her emails because some of us have jobs that do not start at noon.
I opened notes on the walk home and stared at “navy jumper, good hands, lives near the overground.” It looked thinner in daylight. Most things do.
I could message the number. He put it in my phone himself, under a string of emojis and one word that might be Tom. I could ask. I could turn the paragraph back into a person.
I have not. Not because I am playing it cool. Because brunch already took the heat out of it. Once you say a thing out loud over cutlery, it becomes a story you have already spent. The charge goes. You are left with a cold plate and a slightly better understanding of why your friends look at you like that.
Would I do the brunch thing again
Yes. I think I would. Which is either growth or a refusal to learn. I am not picking.
I am tired of the edited Saturday. The one where I “had a quiet one” and everyone nods and we talk about rent. I did not have a quiet one. I had a man in a navy jumper and a gap where his name should be and a morning that started in the wrong postcode. If I cannot say that to the people who have seen me cry over a parking ticket, then the honesty I keep bragging about is just a caption.
Sophie texted later. “Next time just say it was messy. You do not have to give us the full uncut.”
She is probably right. She usually is.
I still would have said it. The table went quiet. The eggs went cold. Lucy will tell two people at work and they will think I am feral. Fine. I am feral on a schedule. I have a journalism degree and a lipstick in every bag. Both things can be true.
If he is reading this and he is Tom, or Dom, or the overground boy with the good hands, you made terrible coffee and I still think about the lift. That is as close to a thank you as you are getting. I already used you for brunch. Seems greedy to ask for more.
Anyway. Next Saturday I might stay in. I might not. If they ask, I will probably tell them the truth again. Someone has to keep the hollandaise interesting.
