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.
Tag: london
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.
Sophie Found Last Night’s Tie
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.
I Kept His Shirt On Purpose
It smelled like him and a club and bad decisions. Sophie asked if I was “keeping souvenirs now”. I am. Obviously.
Sophie Found The Receipt
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.
Group Chat Named Him
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.
Sunday Roast Turned Into Gossip
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.
Someone Used My Good Towels
There are rules. White towels are not for strangers you met at 1am in Shoreditch. I found makeup on the good set and I’m being very normal about it.
Footballer From Friday’s Afterparty
Not naming him. You’d know the face. Took me to the hotel next door, barely spoke, fucked like he had a match in the morning. Left a shirt. I kept it.
I Invented A Soft Launch
Posted the wrist, the drink, not the face. Three people guessed wrong. The right one liked it anyway. Delulu works.