We fucked listening to Dua Lipa on her phone and I left. It wasn’t very romantic to say the least. She called out her ex-boyfriends name at the point of orgasm and I spent most of the time on my phone, messaging other girls. I yanked my stupidly skinny jeans further up my legs trying to make a quick escape after she’d fallen asleep.

I didn’t feel bad about leaving to be perfectly honest. It wasn’t like we had a very strong attachment. We’d bonded at a party at my old dealers place over lines of Charlie that we cut into a cock on the kitchen counter. She started at the top, and I began with the hairs we had artistically added to the small circular testicles. We met in the middle and our tongues clashed like disorientated seals, slipping and sliding in panic and confusion. It wasn’t too bad. I’ve had worse kisses. I’ve had much worse kisses as a result of copious amounts of class A drugs, so this certainly wasn’t the worst kiss. Thinking about it, it wasn’t even the worst sex I’d had that year, and it was only February.

I remember at 12 years old, I saw some shitty rom-com whilst sat with my family on Easter or Christmas or some shit; maybe my step-mothers birthday. I watched as the protagonist left after shagging this girl, which was difficult to watch with my parents and sister, and he left this little sticky note on her bedside table. It made me think a lot.

Even then I knew it was a dick move. I thought to myself: “Damn, what an asshole.”

And yet there I was, scribbling anonymous bullshit on an old used envelope that I found on her tattered desk by her bedroom door. It must have been from the NHS or the DWP or something, because I recognised the prepaid stamping, but I couldn’t pin it down at the time. I used this fluffy pink pen that I picked up earlier that night from wherever the fuck I had been. I don’t remember the majority of the night if truth be told. In my head the events went from smoking out of my mates bong at like 9, cutting lines at like 2 and fucking this random girl at like 5. There were big gaps in my memory. I’m pretty sure I’d taken a few pills, but I’m not sure whether it was Valium or not. I don’t really care to be honest. I mean I didn’t then, but I still don’t now, thinking about it. It wasn’t my primary concern.

I watched the sun rise through her curtains, embarrassed about this stupid note I’d left, thinking about that asshole in this film, whatever it was called. I didn’t even know her name. I just wrote:

Thanks for last night, it was nice knowing you.
Sorry about the note, I had to get to college.
Take care of yourself.

I couldn’t even bring myself to sign my name. A: I didn’t really want to sign my name on a note to a girl I’d just fucked and left, and B: If I didn’t remember hers, then why would she remember mine. I just signed it as “the guy you fucked last night”. I hope she found it funny, but I guess I’ll never know.

I proceeded to sneak across her banister, looking around at the place like I’d never seen it before, because it honestly felt like I hadn’t. I didn’t even know who she lived with. It wasn’t a particularly big house, but there were enough rooms for me to know that this chick didn’t live alone. I noticed photo frames on the window sill at the stairs. I stopped to look and saw they were family photos; this girl and her two younger sisters and what I could only imagine, at the time, was her Mum. My heart sank. I felt a weight of pressure on my chest like I was Giles fucking Corey. But trust me, I didn’t ask for more weight.

I felt sick. I just needed to get out of this place and fast. My head was pounding and I was coming down hard. That was when I heard a click from the kitchen at the bottom of the stairs and the rumble of a boiling kettle. I froze. I could see the door was open too, so there was no way in hell I was getting out of that house without someone noticing me. I thought about climbing out a second story window, like I used to do as a kid when I thought I was a parkour king.

I turn to go back up the stairs but they creek under the weight of my embarrassment and I hear a female voice call out from the kitchen. I panic like never before. I’ve never been caught sneaking out by my ‘one-night-stands’ mother before.

She calls out again…

“Alex, is that you up and about? Seems a bit early for you.”

I poke my head round the door and this woman doesn’t bat an eyelid when she sees a 17 year old boy she’s never met before suddenly appear in her kitchen on a Tuesday morning at nearly 6am. She offers me a cup of tea, and given I shagged her daughter, I felt inclined to agree. We sat and talked for nearly an hour about her daughter (Alex it would seem) and how she used to be when she was young.

She was a nurse, her mum I mean. She’d only been back for a couple hours and the two youngest girls – who couldn’t have been any older than 10 – must have put themselves to bed since Alex had been at this party with me.

She could see I was distressed, and I could see she understood that. She had kind eyes, the kind you wish everyone you met had, but only about 2% of them do, if that. Just instant kindness and understanding. I was comfortable there. Had the sex not been so bad, and had she not clearly still been mourning the death of her relationship, and had I not been feeling the same way about my own, I might have made it work. I would have tried to at least. Her mum makes really good tea.

I started writing today to tell the story of the worst Valentine’s day I’d ever had, but thinking about it I’m not sure that it was actually on Valentine’s day. Instead, I think I told you a story about how I first heard Dua Lipa, before she blew up later that year.

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