I did shout. Sort of. She still got an eyeful, went scarlet, then made tea like nothing happened. Mia is never letting either of us forget this one.
Tag: soho
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.
After I posted the blurry photo. “That’s my mate’s boyfriend.” I typed then deleted then posted the next one anyway.
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.
Same boy. Third time. He makes better coffee than she does, which is the only reason Sophie hasn’t changed the locks. I give it a fortnight.
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.
Driver clocked me from last Thursday’s drop-off in Dalston and asked if I was going back to the same block. I wasn’t. Still tipped him. He’ll tell someone.
For twenty minutes. Then I asked for an Uber and a cigarette. He looked confused. I looked done. Next.