Page 40 of Sex Ed

‘Let me help you get these into recycling,’ I say, almost running out of the door into the corridor of her flat. I need to get out of here immediately.

NINE

MIA

‘DON’T DO IT, YOU SILLY BITCH! YOU DESERVE TO DIE!’ I shriek at my computer screen, watching as a woman in a sexy thriller Netflix film goes back into a house where her ex-husband waits for her with a machete, just so she can save the dog. The dog will be fine. She will not, she doesn’t even have shoes on, and that man is next level psycho. I stuff another piece of pizza into my mouth, languishing in a crop top and flannelette pyjama bottoms, wrapped around my pillow, my hair still in its towel turban from an hour ago. Is this film bad? Oh, it’s awful, but this is what I do. I watch the unwatchable films to keep my opinions of art informed and well-rounded. And maybe after a day of trying to be intellectual and asking a thirteen-year-old to appreciate a Gothic short story from the turn of the century, I just need some predictable trash to get me through the day.

‘MIA! Someone for you at the door…’ a voice winds its way up the stairs. I’m going to have to get up and pause my film and for this I am very annoyed. I peel myself off the bed, shake out my hair and poke my head over the railings of the staircase to see the figure at the door.

‘ED? What are you doing here?’

My housemate, Maxine, stands there like security. She’s still in a power suit and has her serious no-shit commuter face on. I use all her conditioner but in return, when it’s 2-4-1 Tuesdays at Domino’s, I’m always generous with pizza and warm cookies which I hope compensates for the fact I’m a little allergic to housework.

‘Thanks, Maxine. Did you get the Meateor pizza in the kitchen?’

She puts her thumb up and disappears into the living room. I skip down the stairs.

‘What are you doing here? It’s not even nine,’ I tell him.

‘You’re wandering around in a bra. I can see your nipples,’ he says, like this is a problem.

‘It’s a crop top, stop looking at my nipples then.’

‘They’re all I can see.’

As he stands there, I notice things about Ed that I’ve never noticed before and that could be because I’ve now seen him naked. He has a decent arse to start. It’s grabbable, rounded. He has good forearms: not too hairy, not too pale, some definition there, probably from all that pre-sex wanking he had to do. He peers into my living room where the young professionals eat pizza and watch a high-end quiz show. I’ve sat in there with them before. It’s not fun especially when you shout out the right answers and Brian (financial whizz kid; only wears white underwear) looks at you all snootily like that shouldn’t be in your frame of knowledge. Piss off, Brian.

‘Want to come upstairs?’ He nods forlornly and I pat him on the head. ‘Why are you here? How was flatpack making?’ I enquire as we head up the stairs.

‘We made the stuff. She’s a fan of Margaret Atwood.’

‘Aren’t we all?’

I watch as he enters my room and does the same thing he always does which is to observe it like a health inspector looking for hazards. The pizza box on the bed, the dirty clothes piled on a chair, the assorted mugs gathering dust with half-drunk cups of tea. I kick a pair of knickers under the bed and pick up some other clothes, dumping them on the floor so he has a place to sit.

‘Lovely,’ he mutters.

I shake my head at him and crack one of my beers open on my bedside table, handing it to him.

‘That’s not good for the wood, you know,’ he tells me, ‘Not using a coaster.’

‘My wood or your wood?’ I question, going straight for the innuendo. ‘I take it you’re here to mope?’ I say, reading the signs.

‘Kinda. It was actually really lovely. We have a lot in common. She has a Ficus…’

‘Is that contagious?’

‘It’s a plant.’

‘And you love plants.’

‘I do,’ he says, taking a large swig of his beer. He stares into space and leans back into the chair, carefully taking off his shoes.

‘So, what happened, you built her things and then left? How did you end it? Or did you do something embarrassing?’

‘Define embarrassing?’ he asks.

‘Did you spill a drink so it looked like you wet yourself?’ I ask, bouncing on to my bed and trying to find my previous comfortable position so I can counsel him properly.

---