It started because the kettle took too long. That is the honest version. Mia was in last night’s eyeliner and one of my hoodies. I was in a shirt that was not mine and I had already decided I was not giving it back. Sophie had gone for a run like a person with a future. The flat smelled like coffee and whoever we had let through the door at 2am.
Mia said, “right. Marks out of ten. Be normal about it.”
I said, “define normal.”
She poured water over instant coffee like it was a scientific instrument. “Timing. Stamina. Whether they asked if you wanted water after. I am not doing feelings before noon.”
So we did not do feelings. We did the kitchen table version of peer review. Petty. Necessary. Weirdly comforting. If you have never sat in your own kitchen and ranked two men who are probably still asleep somewhere in Zone 2, I do not know what you are doing with a Saturday.
The setup, because context matters
Hers was from the afters in Dalston. Tall, works in something that requires a lanyard during the week, laughed at her jokes even when they were not jokes. Mine was the one from Thursday who turned into Friday by accident. Different postcode. Same species. London boys who think a decent playlist is a personality.
We did not use names at first. That felt like courtesy. Then Mia slipped and called hers “the jumper” because he left it on our banister. I called mine “watch boy” because of course I did. Once you give them nicknames they become data. Easier to be honest when it is not a person, just a category.
Sophie texted from the park. “If you are doing the debrief, put the good mugs in the dishwasher after.” She knows us. She has heard the soundtrack through the wall. She would rather we sanitise the crockery than pretend we are nuns.
Timing
This is where it got clinical. I do not mean clocks on the nightstand. I mean the gap between arriving and the first proper move. The bit where you can tell if someone has done this before without making it grim.
Mia said hers took ages to kiss her in the kitchen of that stranger’s flat. Too much talking about the DJ. She said she almost lost interest and then he clocked it and sorted himself out. Late recovery. She gave it a six for pacing.
Mine did not waste the hallway. Coat still on. That sounds feral when I type it. In the moment it was just efficient. I like efficient. I also like not standing around performing mystery for a man who has already seen the story I posted at midnight. I gave him an eight for timing and then immediately felt like a manager doing appraisals.
Mia squinted at me. “An eight is generous.”
“He did not ask what I did for work first,” I said. “That is worth two points on its own.”
She conceded that. We have both sat through the career chat with our tights in our bag. It kills a night faster than bad breath.
Stamina, and the bit we pretend is a joke
We did laugh. Of course we did. It is easier to laugh than to admit you are keeping a spreadsheet in your head.
Mia said hers was enthusiastic and slightly chaotic, like a man who has watched a lot of something and remembered the wrong chapters. Fine for a first time. Not a long haul. She made the international hand gesture for “got there eventually” and nearly spilled her coffee.
Mine lasted longer than the Uber receipt suggested he would. I said that out loud and we both screamed into our mugs because it is such a stupid metric and also the only one available at 11am. He paid attention, which I care about more than the clock. He also got a bit pleased with himself halfway through, which I deducted for. Nobody likes a man narrating his own highlights.
“Did he check in?” Mia asked.
“Once. Properly. Then he got cocky.”
“Classic.”
“Classic,” I agreed. “Still better than the one last month who asked if I was ‘close’ like he was waiting for a bus.”
That one still lives in the group chat as a cautionary tale. We do not say his name. We say “the bus man” and Sophie groans from her bedroom.
The water question
This is the one I will die on. I am not joking.
If you have just had sex with someone in a flat that is not yours, or yours, or a hallway that is legally grey, the least you can do is ask if they want water. Not champagne. Not a monologue about how rare the connection is. Water. Glass. Tap. Basic animal care.
Mia’s boy did it. She looked almost annoyed that he scored the point. He got up, found a glass, asked if she wanted ice like they were in a hotel. She said no ice. He still brought ice. She deducted half a point for not listening and added two for effort. Net win.
Mine did not ask. He did pass me the bottle from the side of the bed without looking, which is adjacent. I marked it as a pass with notes. Could do better. Will mention it if there is a next time, which there might be, which I am not putting in writing if I can help it.
Mia pointed her spoon at me. “You always give yours a curve.”
“I am a fair marker.”
“You are a girl who likes being wanted and you dress it up as science.”
She is not wrong. I still wrote “water: late, unprompted, acceptable” in my notes app. I write everything down. That is the job. Also the compulsion.
Bodies, without being weird about it
We did the shallow bit too. Hair. Hands. Whether they smelled like the club or like an actual person. Mia said hers had good arms and a tattoo she could not read. I said mine had a stomach that suggested he used to play something at school and then discovered pints. Neither of us is looking for a sculpture. We are looking for not being bored.
Kissing is the category people skip and then regret skipping. Hers was sloppy in a way she liked. Mine was better after he stopped trying to be filmic. I told her that and she said “they all try to be filmic for the first three minutes” and I felt seen in a way that had nothing to do with sex.
That is the secret of these conversations. It is not really about the men. It is about proving to each other that we were there, that we chose it, that we can still laugh with mascara under our eyes and a stranger’s watch tan in the bed.
Sophie came home and ruined the methodology
She walked in pink in the face from the run, looked at the two of us, looked at the extra glass in the sink, and said, “please tell me you are not scoring them like gymnasts.”
Mia said, “too late.”
Sophie filled her bottle from the tap. “Did they at least leave quietly?”
“Mine did,” I said. “Yours?”
Mia winced. “He tried to make tea. I had to walk him to the door with the mug still in his hand.”
Sophie made the face she makes when she is judging us and also filing it away for later. “You two are going to get us evicted by vibe alone.”
Then she sat down anyway. Of course she did. She pretended she was only there for the coffee. Five minutes later she asked if either of them had that annoying habit of asking “was that okay” in a voice that wants a standing ovation. We both said no, thankfully. We have had that one. It is worse than the bus man.
Who won
We did not declare a winner. That would have made it mean. It is not a competition even when it is absolutely a competition.
On paper, mine had better timing and worse aftercare. Hers had worse pacing and better manners. If you added it up like a school report we would both be on a B minus, which in this city is practically a proposal.
I would see mine again. I did not say that first. Mia said it about hers and then looked at me like she had confessed to a crime. I said “same” and we both stared at the toaster like it had asked us to define the relationship.
The thing nobody puts in the cute friendship posts is this. Comparing notes keeps you from building a whole novel out of one decent night. It cuts the delulu down to size. He was good at this, bad at that, asked for water or did not, left a jumper or a watch or nothing. You say it out loud and it becomes a story instead of a spiral.
Also it is funny. We needed funny. The night before had been loud and late and a bit much. The kitchen at noon made it ordinary again. Ordinary is underrated when your job is turning everything into content.
What we kept
Mia kept the jumper. She said she would wash it and forget to give it back. I kept the shirt. Sophie said if either garment is still here in a fortnight she is putting them in the communal lost property box we do not have.
I wrote the scores in my phone under a note called “kitchen.” Timing. Stamina. Water. Kissing. Exit. I did not write their real names. I am messy. I am not stupid.
If either of them reads this and recognises himself, relax. You were a sample size of one. You were discussed next to instant coffee and a crumb on the worktop. That is as intimate as it gets in this house, and it is still kinder than silence.
Mia asked if we should make an actual chart. I said no, because the day we laminate it we have lost the plot. Then I opened a new note titled “chart?” and left it blank.
Scientific. Petty. Necessary.
Put the good mugs in the dishwasher on your way out.
