No speech about my past. No scoreboard on the night. Just appetite and a bit of manners. Rare. I remember them far too bloody long.
Tag: manners
It was one box. It was mine. I would have said yes if you asked. Instead I come home hungry and start a proper grudge.
I can feel when you are half in the room. Hands on me, eyes on a screen, I go cold. Be here. Notifications can wait.
Nice is manners in public. Kind is what he does when nobody is watching and you need a lift, not just some cheap little compliment.
I can calculate it in a second. Asking for it is the bit that shrinks me. Pride and rent should not share a table anyway.
Kettle on, someone half dressed, my cereal in the crossfire. I live here. I work early. Your new friend does not need any kitchen tours.
Nice people go quiet. The group chat dries right up. Then the money leaves and we are mates again. Poverty makes all our manners seasonal.
Not showy messages. The are-you-home-safe ones after. Aftercare is a character test. Most good people pass the sex easily and then fail the morning kettle.
Not sex this time. An actual argument. I put music on and hated myself for listening. Thin walls make you an unpaid bloody little witness.
A walk is never just a walk. Travel, outfit, time off the rota. Casual is a lie London tells so nobody notices the standing order.