Eight years we’ve been friends and it never entered my mind before today that we would ever go there. Last week when you asked me out for dinner, I thought nothing of it whatsoever. Just that we’d have dinner (as we often do) and that would be it.
I didn’t realise it would turn into this…
Me lying naked next to you, having just had the best sex of my life.
***
Earlier, you texted the address of where we’d be eating and I didn’t recognise it at all. In recent times, it’s always been that nice Italian off Dover Street or the French restaurant I like down by Canary Wharf. Nice places, you know? Not too shabby. So I pulled up the address on Maps and realised it was your studio.
We met many years ago when we were working on a play together. Remember? You were slightly older, I knew, and had a skinhead then and were fucking your way through the cast. Most of them went bright red whenever you walked into the room and it bamboozled me. I was awkward, academic and unsure of myself. I had ambitions and certainly, no time for boys. We swapped numbers though because we enjoyed each other’s dark sense of humour, but you never made a move on me. I was fresh out of stage school and had too much to achieve. You were dangerous and not what I was looking for.
I got a job working on a soap soon after that play. You used to rib me about my looks having got me the part. You were tired of treading the boards, but nevertheless, went on a tour of Europe with another stage company soon after… and the next time we saw one another, I was in a relationship with my first serious boyfriend.
That relationship only just ended recently after I realised the sex was bad. Plus,
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