Me half-dressed, barely out of bed. An unpacked suitcase lying open on the floor. Potted plants, unwatered for the week I was away, withering and snowing yellow leaves all over the dusty floor. Bed unmade and clothes lying in untidy heaps.
He doesn't call before he comes to visit, I hate it when people don't call first. Sends me a text message in the lift on his way up to the fourth floor. I barely have time to throw on a pair of jeans, run a hand through my hair and frown at my un-made-up face in the mirror. It's his first visit in my flat - okay, that's my own fault, as I should have asked him over ages ago instead of just arranging coffee dates all over the city.
Clearly, he's taking matters into his own hands and deciding it's about time I let him further into my life. Grudgingly, I have to admit this: A real man, annoying and admirable. So, I let him see the basic version of me, with no make-up, and of my home, not tidied up for visitors. If he can take it, he's passed another test.
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