First the Cream, Then Everything Else
Tom and I have known each other for fifteen years, but we only became proper mates a couple of years back—right after we both got divorced at roughly the same time. His second marriage ended with a spectacular row, slammed doors, and enough drama to fuel a soap opera. Mine was quieter, but still shook me up. We didn’t drown in vodka or self-pity, though. Instead, we pedaled along riverbanks and tore through woodland trails. Bikes, sweat, wind in our faces. Real friendship isn’t built on booze—it’s built on the shared craving for freedom. The kind where no one nags you for answers or makes you lug around a rucksack of expectations.
We both shed pounds like mad. The gut that once smugly draped over our belts? Gone. Freedom, it turns out, is the best diet plan. Then, one balmy July evening, we were cycling through the park when Tom suddenly let go of the handlebars, threw his arms wide, tipped his head back, and bellowed:
—FREEEEEEDOM!
The pensioners’ poodles went into hysterics. Meanwhile, he just laughed—grinning like a man who’d won the lottery.
We lived like that for a year—happy, trim, unattached. Then one day, I dropped by Tom’s place. He’d got himself a new bike and was dying to show it off. I gave it a once-over—gripped the frame, spun the wheels, got my hands greasy—then headed to the bathroom to scrub up. And there, while washing my hands, I spotted it: a tiny pink jar with a gold lid. Face cream.
—Tom! I yelled. You’re using *cream* now?
He chuckled like a man caught red-handed.
—Oh, that’s Emily’s. She left it here so she wouldn’t have to lug it back and forth.
—Emily? Who’s Emily?
—Right… Did I not mention her?
Of course he hadn’t. As it turned out, a month earlier, he’d met a girl. Emily, a lawyer on the up. Smart, sweet, easy on the eyes. She’d started staying over. Left the cream. Just the one. For now.
—Well, that’s it then, I said. The invasion’s begun.
—What invasion?
—You don’t see it? It’s like in *Alien*. First, the facehugger. Then the chestburster. That cream’s the facehugger.
Tom brushed it off. But I knew what I was talking about. Women don’t storm the gates. They work subtly. No suitcases, no shouting. First, a jar of cream. Then a toothbrush. Then a pillow. They wait till you let your guard down. And then—before you know it—your bathroom’s pink, your balcony’s cluttered, and your heart’s full of worries.
Soon after, Tom had me round to meet her. Emily was surprisingly lovely. Small pearl earrings, neat hair, a smile you couldn’t help but trust. She’d made pineapple pizza—a controversial choice, but tasty.
I popped to the loo. There it was: a pink toothbrush, hand cream, and her earrings, lounging in the soap dish like they owned the place. I caught my reflection in the mirror:
—Mate, you’re infected.
A month later, I tried dragging Tom out for our usual ride. He made excuses. I turned up at his door to yank him out. He shuffled into the hallway, bleary-eyed in a dressing gown.
—Should’ve called first, mate.
From the bedroom, Emily’s voice:
—Tommy, who is it?
Him, fast:
—Just Dave… bike pump… popped round…
I ducked into the bathroom—and that’s when I knew it was over. His toothpaste, shaving foam, and aftershave were huddled in the corner like survivors. The rest? Bottles, tubes, jars, scents. And her earrings on the sink—not visitors, but residents.
I left in silence.
Two weeks later, he roped me into helping assemble a wardrobe. We chucked junk, rearranged furniture. Emily orchestrated:
—That goes. That too! Books—over here!
Tom mumbled weak objections—she stepped over them like they were stray socks.
—Hey, d’you want his bike? she asked me. It’s just gathering dust on the balcony.
That’s when I knew for sure. Tom’s freedom was dead. First, the cream jar. Then the flat. Then the balcony. Then his heart.
Listen up, lads. If you value your independence—don’t let them in. Not an inch. It starts with an ‘innocent’ pot of cream. Ends with you staring at a lace-trimmed dressing gown in your wardrobe, wondering how you got there.
A year passed. Tom and I barely texted. I rode alone. It was lonely. But I still had the one thing that mattered: freedom.
Then I met Sophie. Classic story. Sweet, kind, asks for nothing. Just once, softly, almost shy:
—Can I leave some moisturiser at yours? So I don’t have to carry it?
I didn’t say no. Because I was smitten.
Now it’s done. The virus is in.
And I can feel the fall coming.
Forgive me, brothers.
Farewell.
