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.
Tag: sophie
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.
Flatmates Rated The Walk-Ins
Scorecards on the fridge. Marks for height, exit time, whether they made tea. Last night’s got a 6. Harsh but fair.
Banker Choked Me Too Hard
Nice suit, worse manners. Hand on my throat in his City flat and I liked it more than I should admit. Bruises next morning. Told Sophie it was a necklace.
Mia’s Afters Wrecked The Sofa
Red wine, someone else’s jacket, and a dent I cannot explain to the landlord. We flipped the cushion. Classic.
Sophie Heard The Lot
Thin walls, worse timing. I wasn’t quiet and she wasn’t asleep. Next morning she just slid a Tesco meal deal under my door like a peace offering. We still haven’t discussed it. Peak.
Afters With No Speakers
Ended up in a warehouse kitchen in Hackney Wick, twelve people, one Bluetooth dying, someone’s Deliveroo arriving at 6am. I still call it a party. Sophie calls it a cry for help.
Mia Booked A Surprise Stripper
For my “un-birthday”. He was late, polite, and ended up drinking our wine. I tipped him in leftover pizza.