Not me. The girl whose boyfriend was inside with his hand on my waist. I gave her a cigarette. I’m not a monster.
Tag: soho
I Told The Truth At Brunch
They asked how my Saturday was. I said I went home with a man whose name I still don’t have. Eggs went cold.
We Threw A Secret Afters
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.
We Had Sex During The Fire Alarm
Everyone filed out. We didn’t. The sprinklers never came on. Anti-climax in every sense except the one that mattered.
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.
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.
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.