Phone on 4%. Makeup still on. Someone in my bed whose name is in my notes as “Tuesday?” That’s the job. That’s the life.
Tag: flatmates
Mia Brought Him Home Again
Same boy. Third time. He makes better coffee than she does, which is the only reason Sophie hasn’t changed the locks. I give it a fortnight.
Sunday Kitchen Tribunal
Sophie, Mia, leftover pizza, three phones face-up. They made me go through every name from Saturday in order. I did. Then I asked who was taking me out next weekend. Silence.
The Uber Knew My Name
Driver clocked me from last Thursday’s drop-off in Dalston and asked if I was going back to the same block. I wasn’t. Still tipped him. He’ll tell someone.
I Let Him Think It Meant More
For twenty minutes. Then I asked for an Uber and a cigarette. He looked confused. I looked done. Next.
That Girl From Recomply
Saw her again at a birthday in Shoreditch. Last time she was crying in a bathroom about him. This time she’s on his shoulders. I have the old voice notes. Tempting.
I Told The Truth At Brunch
They asked how my Saturday was. I said I went home with a man whose name I still don’t have. Eggs went cold.
We Threw A Secret Afters
Official night ended at two. Ours started in the kitchen with whatever was left in the freezer. Ten people. One speaker. The neighbours will survive. Probably.
We Had Sex During The Fire Alarm
Everyone filed out. We didn’t. The sprinklers never came on. Anti-climax in every sense except the one that mattered.
The Group Chat Has Receipts
Screenshots. Voice notes. A blurry photo from the smoking area. I thought I was being discreet. I was being content. There’s a difference and I keep forgetting it.