Stayed over, used the expensive one, left the cap off. Then asked if I wanted to “do this again sometime.” I said maybe. I meant no. My skin looks better than his manners.
Tag: hookup
Of him. Of the texts. Of my “I’m coming home I swear” lie from 2am. Democracy is dead in this flat and I’m the president.
She didn’t even knock this time. Just turned the radio up and sent a group-chat screenshot that said “congratulations I guess”. Fair.
He asked me not to write it. I said I wouldn’t use his name. I didn’t. Everything else is fair game. That’s the deal.
So we didn’t wait. Coat still on. His hand over my mouth because the attendant was two feet away pretending not to exist.
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.
For twenty minutes. Then I asked for an Uber and a cigarette. He looked confused. I looked done. Next.
They asked how my Saturday was. I said I went home with a man whose name I still don’t have. Eggs went cold.
Everyone filed out. We didn’t. The sprinklers never came on. Anti-climax in every sense except the one that mattered.
His place in Dalston. Door wasn’t locked. Mate stood there for a second, laughed, then asked if we wanted a beer. We kept going. I came looking at the ceiling.