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I live in a gorgeous flat.
Two bedrooms. Exposed brick. Marble countertops, stainless steel appliances, and the shower - god. That shower.
I’ve had sex dreams about that shower. Not about having sex in the shower, mind. About just taking a shower in that glorious haven. That’s enough to make me moan.
My flat’s at the top of a building that my flatmate’s family owns. That’s the only reason I can afford to live here - even I’m not that well off. The rest of the flats are mediocre, average rent for this hideously overpriced part of town. But the penthouse is incredible.
I have to share it, but I don’t mind. My flatmate is also my best friend - we’ve known each other since we were in diapers. We learned to ride horses together, played tennis at the Club together, and went to uni together. She’s the only person I could stand to be flatmates with, because she’s tidy, rarely talkative and an excellent friend.
People tend to assume that we’re a couple. It would be perfect, really, if Agatha were the relationship type. And if I weren’t hopelessly gay.
All in all, it’s an excellent arrangement. But that’s not to say that we don’t have our gripes with one another.
Agatha says I take too long in the bathroom every morning. There are two bathrooms, but of course we fight over the same one (because of The Shower.)
I complain that Agatha’s too loud when she wakes up early to go riding.
She’s also loud in other ways. Agatha has a…robust sex life. She’s got a revolving door of one-night-stands and temporary beaus, of all genders, universally gorgeous.
I try to be charitable. It’s not that I’m a prude, exactly, but we have very different comfort levels when it comes to casual sex. (Which is to say, I can’t bring myself to have it.) (So yes, I’ve had sex with maybe two people, if you squint.)
I’m excellent at giving the cold shoulder, so I just ignore the morning-afters and go about my day.
Unfortunately, this morning-after is so incredibly annoying.
The first mistake Agatha made was tumbling into bed with our downstairs neighbour. He’s taken this as permission to drop by, unannounced, all the time. Most of the times when he knocks on the door, Agatha isn’t even home. I can only assume that his peanut brain hasn’t grasped the concept of texting her first to check.
I tried telling him to leave the first time, but he looked so pathetic that I let him in and made him a cuppa. And then he stuck around for far too long. He might actually be a stalker, because Agatha didn’t even realise he’d be there when she got home.
When I told her so, she rolled her eyes. “Simon’s harmless. You should get to know him better - I think you’d get on.”
“There’s no point in getting attached to one of your flings,” I sneered.
Agatha gave me the Look that says “I love you, but I won’t hesitate to drop-kick you in the bollocks.” (She’s got a kick like the horses she loves to ride.)
“Ignoring the slut-shamey overtones of that statement - Basil, are you thick? It’s clearly not like that between him and me.” And then she made some gesture with her hand, as if I should have known that all along.
So I suppose he’s more than a fling.
He’s not Agatha’s usual type, but maybe that’s why he’s stuck around. She usually goes for posh and polished types, with names like Sacha or Minty or Ginger. Simon is - not like that. He has an extremely ordinary name and a below-average level of polish. If the fact that he asks for our WiFi password every time we change it is any indication, he’s not particularly blessed in the finances department, either.
He is good-looking, but only if you’re into the just-rolled-out-of-bed type of handsome. He puts zero effort into his appearance, and there’s nothing outstanding about any one of his features, but they’re somehow charming all put together.
Still, I’m not sure what Agatha sees in him. I usually go out of my way to tune out my roommate’s amorous noises, but there’s no need to do that when Simon sleeps over. He must be terrible in bed.
No, all he seems to do for Agatha is eat her leftovers and lie on her fancy couch.
That bit may be my fault. I should have never revealed that I had the newest version of FIFA. Now, every Sunday, instead of going about my normal routines, I spent eight hours playing video games and talking about football with him.
It’s strange. I have three friends - Agatha, Niall and Dev. Dev is my cousin, so he doesn’t actually count, and I’ve known all three of them since primary school. I’ve never felt the need to get exceptionally close with the other people I cross paths with.
But I guess none of them are around as much as Simon Snow.
At least I don’t have to wear earplugs to sleep anymore.
Their dalliance lulls me into such a sense of security that when I wake up to Agatha’s ridiculous sex noises for the first time in months, I don’t even reach for my earplugs. I just stare at the door to my bedroom and try to wrap my head around what must be happening.
Then I can’t get the image of Simon in the throes of pleasure from my brain. It’s deeply unpleasant imagining him with Agatha.
Well, at least he figured out where the clitoris is.
I can’t face him the next morning. During the week, he leaves early for work, so I ignore my bladder until eight a.m. when I can be assured that he’s not going to burst out of Agatha’s room naked.
So I stop in my tracks when I see six feet of fashion model standing at the counter, in just her bra and pants, pouring coffee into Simon’s mug.
“Good morning,” she says pleasantly.
“You can’t use that.”
She frowns. “What, the mug?”
I move to grab it, but she’s still pouring and hot coffee spills all over my hand. It hurts like hell.
Before I can think it through, I snatch the coffee pot from her and pour it into the sink.
“What the fuck?” she responds.
My hand is pink and angry, and I don’t even turn around when I snap, “Now will you get out?”
“Look, I didn’t realise she had a boyfriend,” the model says, halfway out the door but still pulling on her dress and heels. “But like, calm the fuck down, mate.”
The rest of the day goes abysmally. Least of all because I didn’t get my morning coffee.
When I come home from work, Agatha is standing by the door, looking like she’s had kittens.
“Basil, what is wrong with you?”
I sigh and set my laptop case down with more force than necessary. “Look, Snow might not look like an underwear model, or have a godlike knowledge of female anatomy, but he’s a decent man. At the very least he deserves to know before you move on from him.”
Agatha stares at me for a full five seconds before bursting into laughter. “Baz, did you - did you think that Simon and I are hooking up?”
I don’t appreciate being laughed at, and I try to communicate this by injecting as much condescension into my words as possible. “Yes? That’s hardly an out-there assumption, Wellbelove. He comes over nearly every day. He sleeps in your bed.”
“He sleeps on the couch in my room, and that’s only when he can’t afford to pay the heating bill.” She claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Christ, this explains so much.”
“What?” I ask, irritably.
“Nothing.” And then she turns her earnest, too-big brown eyes on me. “Baz - there’s nothing going on between Simon and me. I promise.”
I’m relieved. Simon is the most wholesome man alive. I’m defensive at the idea of anyone hurting him.
“Then why is he constantly hanging around?”
Agatha raises her eyebrows, as if there’s something I’m not getting about the whole situation. Then, she sighs.
“I had absolutely no desire to get involved in this, and I’m already much deeper than I want to be. But I will take mercy on your thick skull.”
And then, after that cryptic comment (and uncalled-for insult to my intelligence), she just walks away and goes to bed.
*
As I’m washing off the vestiges of work the next evening, my phone begins to ring. I cut my shower tragically short and answer. It’s Agatha.
“Baz, you’re going for drinks at eight. Dress nicely.” Then, she hangs up like a cop in an American movie.
I grumble and consider the much better alternative - fancy wine on the couch, Agatha and I in our matching pyjamas and fuzzy slippers, watching a movie like we usually do. But she’s my best friend, so I dress up for drinks anyway.
(I am excited for the chance to get dressed up for once.)
The doorbell rings at eight, which surprises me. It’s not like Agatha to forget her keys.
When I open the door, it’s not my flatmate. No, Simon Snow is standing there, in a slightly-too-big navy blue suit, holding a bouquet of flowers.
My heart drops.
He’s clearly hoping for something from Agatha that he’s never going to get. And even though she doesn’t deserve it, I’m upset with her. Snow is - well. He’s not perfect, not by any measure, but how could you have those hopeful blue eyes trained on you and not fall desperately in love with him?
I suppose it’s on me to let him down gently. So I say, “Agatha’s not here.”
“Yeah? I know. She told me she’d be gone until the morning.”
We stare each other down in mutual confusion until Simon startles and all but shoves the bouquet into my hand.
“These are for you.”
I’m so shocked that I actually take them.
He rubs the back of his head nervously. “Uh, I mean. Obviously.”
That was not obvious to me. Neither is what is happening right now.
“Will you get drinks with me?” he asks. And the cogs in my brain are turning slowly enough that when he says, “As in a date,” it floors me completely.
“What?”
Simon juts his chin out. “Yeah, one date. Give me a shot. I know I’m not - rich, or super smart, or in your league in any way, but - I fancy you a lot. So just give me a chance - one chance, Baz, I swear -“
He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because I’m kissing him.
(We don’t make it to drinks.)
(But I still show Simon how much I appreciate his suit. By taking it off of him.)
*
[12:20 AM] AW: Did you figure it out yet?
[12:20 AM] AW: You owe me forever.
[12:20 AM] AW: As in, I get dibs on The Shower forever. Hope it was worth it ;)
Simon rolls over in bed, his curls mussed, still naked save for his pants, and pulls me into the thousandth kiss of the night.
[12:35 AM] BP: It certainly was.