He looked well. I looked better. I made sure of that in the mirror by the sinks before I walked over.
Girls’ night started classy. Ended with who slept with whose almost-boyfriend in May. I didn’t start it. I just didn’t stop it. That’s different, innit.
The bill was fine. The speech about “what this means” was not. I kissed him to shut him up. It worked. Temporarily.
No one knew whose flat it was by 5am. There were fairy lights and a chopping board used as a tray. I made toast for a stranger.
I told my own reflection I was going home with him. She agreed. She also needed more gloss. Priorities.
He was fit, bored, and already looking at me like I’d started it. So I did. The drinks came quicker after that. Not a strategy. Just good manners.
We never left the flat. Someone DJ’d off a phone. I snogged a boy against our own fridge. Cheap night. Expensive hangover.
Someone’s friend-of-a-friend had access. No licence, just speakers and a view of the City looking cheap. I danced like the content was already posted. It wasn’t. Yet.
Didn’t know he had one until the request popped up. She watched it twice. I left it up. If he wanted privacy he shouldn’t have taken me to Soho.
Look, the meter was still running and I wasn’t getting out in Peckham at 3am with unfinished business. He tipped the driver. I kept the story.