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.
Tag: uber
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.
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.
Told them I went west. I went east. With him. The receipt is still in my coat and Mia has a nose like a bloody sniffer dog.
Spent twenty minutes on the lips. He kissed it all off in a stairwell in Soho. Then put me against the wall. I redid the whole face in the Uber home. Priorities.
Started at 22. Ended in a basement where the floor pulled my heels off. That’s the London arc and I refuse to skip either half.
Same night. Same man. Different room because the first one had his flatmate snoring. Efficiency.
We weren’t even mid-anything dramatic. Just talking too loud at 3am. The flatmate made tea, sat down, and asked if this was “a regular thing.” I said define regular. He left.
No jacket. His socks. Sunglasses I found in the Uber. A woman with a pram looked at me like I’d invented sin. Morning.