We never use real names. This week he’s “Mayfair Suit.” Last week he was “Wrong Uber.” Sophie clocked the pattern. Said I need a hobby that isn’t collecting aliases. Rude. Accurate.
Tag: Chelsea
We Compared Notes In The Kitchen
Mia’s boy versus mine. Timing, stamina, whether they asked for water after. Scientific. Petty. Necessary.
We Never Made It Upstairs
Hallway. Shoes still on. Someone’s Amazon parcel as a pillow. Romance is dead and I’m throwing the funeral.
Bathroom Stall Was Unexpectedly Romantic
Romantic is generous. Functional. His belt buckle kept hitting the dispenser. I still came. That’s the bit I’ll leave in.
I Lied About The Taxi
Told them I went west. I went east. With him. The receipt is still in my coat and Mia has a nose like a bloody sniffer dog.
I Kept His Lighter
Not as a trophy. As proof I didn’t invent him. Sophie asked why there’s a clipper on the windowsill that isn’t ours. I said it was Mia’s. Mia said it was mine.
Flatmates Rated The Walk-Ins
Scorecards on the fridge. Marks for height, exit time, whether they made tea. Last night’s got a 6. Harsh but fair.
He Stayed For The Full English
I didn’t cook it. He did. In my kitchen. Wearing yesterday. Sophie walked in, said “morning”, and put the kettle on like a saint.
The Afters Had A Guest List
Until it didn’t. Door open, neighbour in a dressing gown, someone crying in the good chair. I took notes on my phone.
I Snogged The Best Man
Wedding afterparty in Chelsea, open bar, I was only meant to be content. Best man had a fiancée on table nine. She found me in the cloakroom redoing lipstick. Awkward doesn’t cover it.