First the Cream, Then the Rest
Tom and I have known each other for about fifteen years, but we only became close friends a couple of years ago—when both of us went through divorces at nearly the same time. His second marriage ended with a loud slam of the door and plenty of shouting. Mine was quieter, but no less unsettling. We didn’t drown in vodka or self-pity—we just pedalled along the riverbanks and raced down woodland paths. Bicycles, sweat, and wind in our faces. It’s not drink that binds men together, but the longing for freedom. The kind where you answer to no one, explain nothing, and carry no sack of other people’s expectations on your back.
We both lost weight quickly. The gut that once spilled over the belt was gone without a trace. Freedom—it even cures the waistline. One warm July evening, we were coasting through the park when suddenly Tom let go of the handlebars, threw his arms wide, tilted his head back, and bellowed at the sky:
“Freedooooom!”
The pensioners’ dogs yelped in panic. He just laughed, looking so happy it was almost irritating.
That’s how we lived for a year—single, content, lean, owing nothing to anyone. Then one day, I dropped by Tom’s place. He’d bought a new bicycle, proud as punch, eager to show it off. I ran a hand over the frame, spun the wheels, got grease on my fingers, and headed to the loo to wash up. And there, as I scrubbed my palms, my eyes landed on a little pink jar. Feminine, with a gold lid. Face cream.
“Tom!” I shouted. “What’s this? You 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 that?”
“Ah… didn’t I mention her?”
Of course he hadn’t. More fool him.
Turns out, a month earlier, he’d met a girl. Emily, a solicitor, climbing the career ladder. Pleasant, sharp, easy on the eyes. Comes round, stays over. Left her cream. Just one little pot. For now.
“That’s it,” I said. “The invasion has begun.”
“What invasion?”
“You don’t see it? It’s like in that film ‘Alien.’ First, the embryo gets inside you. Then it grows and eats you from the inside out. That cream? That’s the embryo.”
Tom waved me off. But I knew what I was talking about. Women don’t rush. They move with finesse. They don’t barge in screaming with suitcases. They leave a pot. Then a hairbrush. Then a pillow. They wait for you to let your guard down. And before you know it, the bathroom’s full of pink things, the balcony’s choked with boxes, and your heart’s weighed down with worry.
Not long after, Tom invited me round to meet her. Emily turned out to be surprisingly lovely. Pearl earrings, neat hair, a smile hard not to trust. She’d made a pineapple pizza—a questionable choice, but tasty.
I slipped into the bathroom again. This time, there was a pink hairbrush and hand cream. Her earrings sat snug in the soap dish. I caught my reflection in the mirror.
“It’s got you, mate. You’re infected.”
Another month passed. I asked Tom to ride our old route. He made excuses. I turned up to drag him out. He shuffled to the door in a dressing gown, bleary-eyed.
“Alex, you could’ve called first.”
From inside, Emily’s voice:
“Tommy, who’s there?”
Him:
“Alex… pump… just dropped by…”
I went to wash up—and knew at once: the end had come. His shaving foam and aftershave huddled in the corner like outcasts. Everywhere else was jars, bottles, tubes, perfumes. And on the sink—her earrings. Not visiting anymore. Living there.
I left without another word.
A few weeks later, he asked me to help assemble a wardrobe. We were chucking junk, shifting furniture. Emily directed operations:
“Right, that goes in the bin. No, that too! Books—over here!”
Tom mumbled something half-hearted—she stepped over his protests like stray socks.
“Hey, you don’t want a bike, do you?” she asked me. “It’s just taking up space on the balcony.”
That’s when I knew for certain. Tom’s freedom was dead. Gone. First, the cream. Then the flat. Then the balcony. Then his heart.
Men! If you value your independence—don’t let a woman into your space. Not an inch. It starts with an ‘innocent’ pot of cream. And it ends with you wondering who you are, where you’re from, and why there’s a lace-trimmed dressing gown in your cupboard.
A year went by. Tom and I hardly messaged. I rode alone. It was lonely. But I still had the one thing that mattered—freedom.
Then I met Lucy. It was textbook. Sweet, kind, asks for nothing. Just once, quiet, almost whispered:
“Can I leave some cream at yours? So I don’t have to carry it?”
And I didn’t say no. Because I was in love.
Now it’s done. The virus is in.
And I can feel my fall coming close.
Forgive me, brothers.
Farewell.
