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.
Tag: kitchen
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.
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.
It was on the toaster. She held it up like evidence. I said it was fashion. She said it was a cry for help. Both true.
Not a condom. Worse. The afters bar tab with two names on it and a time stamp that proves I said I was “already in bed.” She’s weaponising it at brunch.
One bottle in and suddenly everyone’s ex has a name, a job, and a disappointing bedroom habit. I contributed. Obviously. I’m not going to sit there looking saintly.
Mia’s boy versus mine. Timing, stamina, whether they asked for water after. Scientific. Petty. Necessary.
Look, I said he could get an Uber. He made coffee instead, used my good mug, and Sophie clocked the whole thing in her dressing gown. I still haven’t decided if that’s charming or a hostage situation.
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.
Scorecards on the fridge. Marks for height, exit time, whether they made tea. Last night’s got a 6. Harsh but fair.