Soiled. Yes, that was how she felt. Soiled. She was the barren flowerbed with nothing in bloom. Only the seed of her useless boyfriend in a binned condom in the corner of the room.
He'd left in a hurry as usual. No intimacy. No closeness. No caressing. She longed for him to hug her tightly, to give him that passion and intensity that he'd give in his stare as he pounded mercilessly. But no. He'd grunt and pant and sweat as he did his dirty work. Did his... soiling. And then before she could even say "can you at least stay for a cup of tea?" he'd be buttoning up his flies and putting on his shoes.
How could she describe it? It was just so strange how she'd long for this man all week, all day, distracting herself from work to text him. And then as soon as he'd unload, she'd hate him. Useless toad. She was helpless, falling into his web of lies and stories and she knew it was all lies. She knew he was going from one girl's flat to another, to whoever texted back first, and yet, it was the closest she was getting to finding any kind of closeness since leaving uni.
She was scrolling through Facebook at the other uni friends who had all managed to find better jobs and better men. Maybe she needed to get better at pinning someone down. But she wouldn't want that, would she? She didn't want to be like Emma who had some bald useless wimp who would do everything she said, it was no fun. She liked the thrill of the wanting and being wanted. She liked the dark handsome stranger who would pull her hair and grip her like a carcass in the butchers. She liked the bad boy who was absolutely no good for her but would rip her heart to shreds.
And shreds they were. She scrolled and scrolled, trying to take away from the eerie, quiet desolation she was feeling. Facebook wasn't any good. This was reminding her of all her terrible life choices so far and making her feel worse. What other app could occupy her? She pulled up the Guardian news alerts.
Troubles continue in Sierra Leone. Boring. Wife of Prime Minister leaves on allegations of corruption. Boring. Where was the interesting news? Or at least something for a good laugh. Funeral director jailed after putting human fingers in fish fingers.
That made her smile as she clicked the link and turned over in the yellowy lamplight to the background of hissing rain-drenched traffic.
The article showed a gloomy picture of Derek Fletcher, the mortician who was playing pranks with the dead. Apparently he'd been chopping off fingers, mincing them in a secret cellar and the selling the mix to his brother in a cafe opposite the road. She grimaced and then laughed in humour that had become increasingly dark over the past few months. She put down the phone and decided that being a hot soiled mess was not going to make her feel any better. She got up, put on her nightie and went out the door, checked her flatmates weren't in the bathroom and began a bath, locking herself in. She poured a cap of bubble bath into the water and sighed once she settled on the toilet.
Glum glum glum. How did this all come about? She'd replayed the different job options that she could have taken but didn't. But then she realised those options never existed in the first place. They were all graduate schemes and interviews and the online forms were so long and tedious that she never filled them out. She stared at the mountain of bubbles now emerging above the little lake of steamy water. The water was rising so slowly. But she knew if she didn't stay here and watch it, then one of the other 5 flatmates might steal the bathroom and possibly her bath. Scumbags. There was a cobweb in the corner of the room, the spider munching up a lost moth. The grout was seeping away between the tiles. It was a student flat really. It was the best that she could afford for the money she couldn't afford.
Someone knocked on the door. "Can you hurry up?!" - it was Tom. He was one of the more difficult members of the flat. He always looked slightly deranged. You were never quite sure if you were talking to Tom or some kind of alien that had taken root in his body. Well whatever. He banged the door.
She stood up and got outside and said "I'm running a bath so please don't be too long." He grunted and proceeded to release a horrendous quantity of gaseous noise and explosion. She stared at her fingernails while he relieved himself, before the sound of flushing was followed by the opening of the door. "Thanks" she half-heartedly smiled. He didn't even wash his hands - what a minger. She didn't even want to think about his Playstation controller and whatever cutlery he'd used and heaped in the sink. She'd probably have to eat out, or not eat at all with the state of the kitchen. It was surprising there weren't any have rats or cockroaches in the house. Or at least none she'd seen yet. Maybe they were all in Tom's bed.
She settled into the wonderful, blissful warmth. It was so relaxing, detoxing and calm, deep in the waters of this tub. She imagined she was on the advert for some soap advert. She was sinking into the thermal spring baths between a volcano and the jungle. She was light and fluffy and bubbly. All her troubles were gone. All the work, all those stupid taxidermined owls were all an entire jungle away. At least she could switch off. At least she wasn't expected to answer emails and calls all night like her friends. It was so warm and easy and serene.
But there was something that bugged her. Today. That old man was so nice. He was mad of course. Hmm, but it was like the first time she'd had a proper conversation with anyone since she'd started this job. Like a conversation where you actually said what you thought, rather than what you expected what the other person wanted to hear. He seemed such an anarchist, if they existed any more. Old people lose their marbles don't they? But she didn't care any more? She felt she was losing her marbles every day more and more.
Maybe she could meet him for a coffee on a quiet day? At least he'd be able to advise with the boyfriend troubles... maybe? It was just like when you were talking to him you felt like he was listening. As opposed to someone always staring over your shoulder or being lost in their own world. And there was also the flicker of something exciting... dangerous even. Her body shook in water causing a splash and ripples. Fuck this job, fuck everything - the voice came to her, surprising her. She was so god damn sensible all the time and where did this leave her. In a city with no friends, no money, arguing over a bathroom in an overcrowded flat.
That was it she got up, towelled off the bubbles and let the tub gargle her bathwater down the drain.
She typed in the number and mulled over what to type next.