𝐀𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐚. ⁽⁽⁽ᵐᵃᵗᵗʸ ʰᵉᵃˡʸ⁾⁾⁾

Bermondsey.

HNSCC

(Devonte Hynes - Palo Alto)

Milk

The taxi ride back to Streatham was a silent one; I only feigned sleep at first, but genuinely slipped off after ten minutes. Helen woke me with a gentle prod and guided me up the steps to the front door, tutting but with concern still discernible in her voice.

'Jesus, Jo, it's normally you carting me home and tucking me in. What on earth happened to you tonight?' She ran a finger along the purple stain that laced the neckline of my dress. 'And what's this, wine? You're not normally a messy drunk.'

I slumped down onto the front step miserably. 'I fucked up.'

'You never fuck up. Or if you think you have, it's always the tiniest, most insignificant slip-up. It's mountains out of molehills with you, honestly.' She sighed in exasperation as she fumbled with the keys. 'Come on, get up and help me with this bloody key.'

With one more try the door swung open, and I kicked my shoes off in the hallway, already feeling steadied by the familiar, comforting home smell. Helen waited to interrogate me until we were both in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil for the chamomile tea she insisted on making.

'Last time I saw you, you were having a right laugh with Matty. I really can't imagine what must have gone wrong, so please spill.'

I didn't bother with the build-up, and spoke bluntly. 'We made out in the kitchens. After eating hors d'oeuvres and drinking a bottle of wine.'

'You made out with Matty?' She spluttered with laughter, bending over double almost cartoonishly, and I glared at her, mortified. 'Honestly... on what planet is that a fuck up?'

'We were friends! We are friends. Meant to be. But that might be ruined now.' I leaned on the counter, pressing my face into my hands. 'It's really, really not a good idea to start anything more, because then I end up in that category, the one just for hook-ups and not really being respected, and I haven't even seen him in months so it's obviously just an impulse thing, especially because we were drinking so much -' I rambled, my voice becoming shrill. 'Helen, our tongues were in each other's mouths!'

'Okay, chill for a moment. I think I get it.' She laid a hand on my forearm. 'God, I won't lie Jo, I was rooting for you. How did you manage it?'

I recalled it all for her, hands clasped around the hot mug she placed in front of me. By the time I had finished, the tea was lukewarm and Helen had summoned a diplomatic expression onto her face.

'Alright, first, please stop saying you fucked up or did something wrong. You were both super into it, the feeling was clearly mutual... and you know,' she mused, 'plenty of good friends go through this. Hell, my brother even slept with his best mate on a drunken night out, but they agreed it hadn't been romantic. Not the right quality, or spark, or whatever. But they seem to adore and trust each other implicitly now.'

That didn't sound like my experience last night though. Afraid of hearing Helen's analysis on the subject, I held my tongue about the terrific, primal urge that had snowballed in the pit of my stomach, the heated exchange of breath. No way had that been devoid of the right quality.

I didn't sleep well. I'd been afraid of having a dream that reflected my preoccupations, and something about that fear must have prevented me from dropping off after that, because I tossed and turned constantly, replaying the scene over and over in my head and tracking exactly how the air between us had shifted. I imagined what might have happened differently, if he hadn't kissed me. Or if I hadn't stopped us, or walked away. The image and idea of the latter made me shiver, and I chastised myself at this transgression of thought. All the sensations were still so fresh in my memory and in my body, that they were truly disarming at times to recall. But the more I dwelled on them, the more I was aware that the specifics, the subtleties of realism would fade, until all I had in my mind's eye was a dreamlike caricature of Matty as he leaned in.