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.
Tag: memory
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.
It smelled like him and a club and bad decisions. Sophie asked if I was “keeping souvenirs now”. I am. Obviously.
Not because I’m sentimental. Because the lighting in that bathroom was criminal and I might need the room number if the photo does numbers. Research. Obviously.
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.
Spent the night telling me I was different. Ate me out like he meant it. By Sunday the blue ticks were gone. I still replay the bit where he said stay.