Miraculously, Monday morningwas going to plan. If James would stop texting me, it might even stay that way.
Me:Yes, James, I’m still asleep. I’m messaging you from mydreams.
I’d texted Rudy as soon as I woke up. No need to delay the inevitable.
I put the phone down and tried to focus on my lipstick—one thing that was still somewhat under my control.
Eliza was still snoring in the next room. My phone buzzed again, and I half hoped it would wake her so I didn’t have to.
James:No need for the snark. Last time you said you were fine, your flat shorted out when Eliza tried to defrost the freezer with a hairdryer.
I ignored him.
James:Traffic is hellish on aMonday.
God, he was relentless. I stuck in my AirPods and called him.
“You know, texting you while I’m getting ready actually slows me down,” I said with a huff. “I’m on time, and I’ve got Saskia’s pass. So you can leave me to it and get on with whatever frivolous tasks you need to get done before noon.”
James didn’t even have a goldfish to take care of, let alone actual obligations. Try a cat with gum disease, a mother who called you to reload her printer paper, and a sister who treated the place like a serviced apartment.
“I know, I know, I’m basically a playboy,” he said. “But can you, just for once, prioritize getting in early? Or—and I know this is radical—on time?”
“And what time didyouget into work on Friday?” I picked a blob of mascara off my lashes. “Being late because you couldn’t drag yourself out of Raoul’s bed doesn’t really give you the moral high ground.”
“Maybe not, but Novexia’s new owner wasn’t showing up last Friday. Anyway, lateness due to mind-blowing sex is allowed.”
“And your boss is okay with this?”
“Probably not, but who cares? Anyway, we both deserve it after the crap we have to deal with at work. You should put hot sex at the top of your list, hon.”
“Adding it to myto-dolist now…”
“Good.” He paused. “You know your vag can wither away from lack of use, right? Dried out and crispy like nori seaweed.”
“Lovely visual, thanks.”
“I’m talking three-day-old sushi, hon—the type with raw fish.”
“Gross, James. I’m not dead yet, you know.”
“Hon, you’re pushing thirty. Next thing you know you’llbe wearing natty neck scarves and need WD-40 just to get turned on. You need to rejoin the sexual economy while the machinery still functions.”
“I’m miles off thirty, thanks. And I haven’t even been single twenty-four hours, I think I’m safe.”
“Not for long,” he said, in hisGP delivering bad newsvoice. “At least consider some casual sex. You deserve it after Rudy. Live a little.”
I rolled my eyes. Casual sex just wasn’t my thing—I got too invested. One kiss and I was basically offering to be their emergency contact.
“You know orgasms are better for stress than yoga?” he continued. “It’s science. You should look it up.”
“You know Buzzfeed isn’t peer-reviewed?” I said. “Unless the scientific discipline you’re referring to ispseudo, and notbiology?”
“Oh, whatever. It’s something like that.” He tutted lightly. “At least get on Bumble, hon. Preventative measures. So you don’t need prying open with a crowbar later.”
“Yeah, sure. Look, I really need to get ready—”
“Andy—picture him. Shredded. Owns furniture. Knows where the clit is. He exists somewhere, hon, I promise you. And he’s waiting for you to swipe right.”
