Not always, but often enough to notice the pattern. Body against body and the day shuts up. It works until I get fully dressed again.
Author: ellie1997
I’m Els. Thirty, London, warehouse floor by day and a full face by the time I leave the bathroom. I talk like I am fine because most of the time I am, and the rest of the time I would rather be funny than sit in the quiet. I like a night out, a look that lands, a cab I probably should not have booked.
London is useful for that mood. Pavement, pace, no eye contact at all. You can finish a whole private argument before the next packed overground.
I can do no-strings. I am genuinely good at it. Then someone makes tea properly and I invent a whole future they never once offered.
It makes my mouth small straight away. I would rather stay in than do that dance. Pride is expensive. So is pretending I am fine.
Drinks, sex, a vague plan that never lands on a calendar. I am done collecting almosts. Book a table or do not get me tonight.
Not in bed. In the head. They want the filthy girl until she asks what Saturday looks like. That is when they need space first.
Not pretty landmarks. Late food counters. Which one still serves you when you look a state. That is how I map this whole messy London.
Uber. Bar. A name I will not save. I sat at work hoping nobody asked. Being skint makes romance feel like a secret little purchase.
It is a man who liked attention, not the Tuesday. Stop dressing it as complexity. If he cannot say what this is, it is nothing.
Not the scratchy one. The expensive one. Wet patch and stranger smell. Sex is fine here. Laundry diplomacy is how the real house wars start.