Same jawline as the boy from two Saturdays ago in Peckham. Different name on the guest list. I smiled like I didn’t clock it. She definitely clocked that I clocked it.
Tag: parties
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.
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.
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.
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.
Not me. The girl whose boyfriend was inside with his hand on my waist. I gave her a cigarette. I’m not a monster.
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.
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.
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.
It now includes “remove strange men before 9am” and “buy more loo roll after weekends”. I initialled it in lip gloss.