I was not meant to be upright at eight. That is the first thing. The night had ideas of its own and my body just followed like a dog that has never been trained. The dress was last night’s. Black, a bit clingy, a strap that had given up around four. I had a coat over it that did not belong to me. Sunglasses inside because the lighting in Pret is an act of violence.
The queue was the usual weekday mix. Lanyards. People who had slept. A man already on a call about a deck. And two girls in front of me who were very clearly clocking the situation.
One of them turned round. Not rude. Just honest, which I respect.
“You all right, love? That is last night’s dress, isn’t it.”
I could have said I had an early meeting. I could have said costume party. I could have done the little laugh and looked at my phone. I did not. I was too tired for branding.
“Yeah,” I said. “I went out. I did not really come home. This is the coming home bit. It is just happening in public.”
They both grinned like I had passed a test.
How I got to Pret in the first place
The original plan was his place to mine in a straight line. Parsons Green. Shower. The good cleanser. A lie to Sophie about what time I left. That plan died around five when he said he had an early start and I said I would just get a black cab and then I did not get a black cab because I am constitutionally opposed to spending sixty pounds on shame.
Night bus. Then a bit of walking because I got off one stop early like an idiot. Then Pret because the alternative was arriving home empty and shaky and facing the granola tribunal with no caffeine in me. I know my limits. They are Pret shaped.
I still had glitter in my hair. Not festival glitter. The cheap stuff from a bathroom that thought it was a club. My mouth tasted like lime and bad decisions. I had one earring. The other one is probably in a sofa I will never see again. Fine. I have others.
They asked and I actually answered
The taller one had a tote that said something worthy. The other had wet hair and a blazer that meant office. They looked like people with calendars. I looked like a cautionary tale with good legs.
“Was it worth it?” the tote one said.
I thought about it for longer than the queue required.
“The sex was fine. The conversation after was better than it had any right to be. The leaving was grim. So. Sixty percent worth it. I will take sixty.”
They made the noise girls make when they recognise the maths. Not shocked. Just nodding. Like yes, we have all done the sixty percent night and then bought a croissant to make it official.
The blazer one said, “I once did this exact walk in January. Heels versus frost. I still have the scar on my ankle. I tell people it is from tennis.”
I liked her immediately.
We shuffled forward. Someone behind us sighed at the speed of the barista. Nobody in a Pret queue at eight has patience and yet here we were, three women having a full debrief next to the mini muffins.
What I told them, because I cannot help myself
I told them his first name and then regretted it and then realised I had not given a surname so it did not matter. I told them he made tea in the morning without being asked, which is how you know a man has been trained by someone else. I told them I posted nothing. Not even a wrist. I was too busy trying to find an Oyster card that had been in a bag I no longer had.
Tote girl asked if my flatmates would be weird about it.
“Sophie will do the face. Mia will want details and then steal my leftover chips if I have any, which I do not. They have seen worse. They have caused worse.”
Blazer girl said her housemate once brought a man home and he used the yellow towel. There was a meeting. There were slides. I believed her.
It is strange how fast you can become honest with people who have no leverage. They cannot text my mother. They cannot screenshot me into a group chat I actually care about. They are just two faces in a queue who clocked the dress and decided to be kind instead of smug. London can be brutal. Sometimes it is this instead. Rare. Useful.
They bought the coffee
I reached for my card. Tote girl waved it off.
“We have got this. Consider it community service.”
I said I would get the next one and then realised we would never have a next one. That is the deal with these conversations. They are a closed loop. Beautiful. Temporary. Like the night itself.
They got me a flat white and a banana because the banana made it look like I had a plan. I have never eaten a Pret banana and felt proud. I ate it on the pavement outside and felt like I had joined a union.
We stood there for another minute. Not hugging. Not exchanging Instagrams. Just finishing the thought.
Blazer girl said, “For what it is worth, you do not look as tragic as you think. You look like you had a better Saturday than the man on the phone.”
The man on the phone was still talking about a deck. She was right.
The walk after
I took the long way home on purpose. Needed the air. Needed the coffee to hit before Sophie’s kitchen lighting could finish me off. A woman with a pram looked at the dress and then at the banana and then away, which is the London version of a blessing.
I kept thinking about how quick it was. Five minutes in a queue and I had told strangers more than I tell half the men I sleep with. Therapy is expensive. Pret is four pounds fifty if you do not get the extra shot. They paid. I talked. Everybody left lighter.
Is that community? I used to think community was group chats and the same three bars and Mia stealing my heels. Maybe it is also two girls who do not know your surname asking the obvious question and then staying for the answer.
I sent Mia a voice note. “If I am not back in twenty, I have joined a cult that meets in Pret.” She replied with a photo of the kettle and the word “report.” That is love, I think. Or at least flatmate love, which is the one that survives the walk.
What I did not say in the queue
I did not say I liked him more than I planned to. That felt like oversharing even for me. I did not say I checked if he had watched my story from last week. I did not say the dress was a choice I made at 7pm knowing exactly how 8am would look. Some truths are for the blog. Some are for two strangers who will forget my face by lunch. This one split down the middle.
I also did not say thank you in a big way. I said thanks, I said you are good people, I said enjoy your offices. That was enough. Making it larger would have killed it.
Sophie, the dress, the rest of Monday
Sophie opened the door before I got my key in. She looked at the coat that was not mine, the banana peel, the coffee.
“Queue?” she said.
“Therapy,” I said.
She stood aside. “Wash the dress. And give that coat back if you can find him.”
I can find him. I am not sure I will. The coat is quite nice. I will decide after a nap.
The dress is in the machine now. The coffee is gone. The two girls are somewhere in an office being competent. I am on the sofa writing this with makeup I should have taken off three hours ago.
If you are ever in a Pret queue at an hour that makes no sense, and the girl behind you is wearing last night, ask her. She might lie. She might tell you the whole thing. If she tells you, buy the coffee. It is a very cheap way to be part of someone else’s morning after.
Community, apparently. Who knew it came with a loyalty napkin.