SUE’S AFTER DARK DIARIES | EPISODE 48

Sue’s After Dark Diaries Episode 48:The Parcel Definitely Wasn’t Mine

Morning, you lovely lot.

You know those mornings when absolutely nothing is happening?

Lovely, aren’t they?

Saturday started like that.

Unfortunately, Sue’s After Dark Diaries Episode 48 is proof that my quiet Saturdays rarely stay quiet for very long.

I had coffee. Benji was curled up on my lap. The sun was shining and, for once, Sharon hadn’t appeared at my door with one of her ideas.

I should have known it wouldn’t last.

First, a man I hadn’t seen for several weeks jogged past my lounge window.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just any man.

It was Mark.

And apparently, several weeks was nowhere near long enough for me to forget what he looked like without clothes on.

Then I accidentally opened somebody else’s parcel.

By lunchtime, Sharon and I were walking around our apartment block trying to find the owner of a bag containing massage oil, a blindfold, silk boxer shorts and several other things that suggested somebody had plans.

Then Mark opened his door wearing nothing but a towel.

So…

Yes.

Quite a busy Saturday in the end.

It Started With Coffee

Saturday mornings are probably my favourite part of the week.

No alarm.

No rushing.

No need to put a bra on until absolutely necessary.

Just peace.

I was sitting beside the lounge window in my dressing gown with a mug of coffee in one hand and Benji curled up on my lap.

Outside, everyone else was getting on with their morning.

A woman walked past carrying two enormous shopping bags.

Someone was washing a car.

A man with a Labrador was being dragged along the pavement at a speed suggesting the Labrador had made other arrangements.

Further down the road, somebody was attempting to reverse into a parking space and slowly losing the will to live.

I took another sip of coffee.

This was nice.

Then movement caught the corner of my eye.

A jogger.

I glanced over.

Nearly choked.

“Oh.”

Benji looked up.

I leaned slightly closer to the window.

Well, well, well.

Mark.

Oh My… He’s Still Got It

I hadn’t seen him for weeks.

There was a time when Mark regularly jogged past my apartment. Then, for whatever reason, he seemed to disappear.

Not completely, obviously.

He still lived in the building.

But our paths hadn’t crossed.

Now there he was.

Jogging.

Still annoyingly handsome.

His running shirt was clinging to him in all the right places.

And those shorts…

Good grief.

I watched him disappear behind a parked van.

Bugger.

Then he appeared again.

Much better.

“Oh my…”

Benji looked up at me.

“What?”

He continued staring.

“I’m having my coffee.”

Another stare.

“And Mark happens to be running past the window.”

I looked back outside.

He really was in good shape.

Very good shape.

“He’s still got it.”

Benji put his head back down.

“Don’t you judge me. You stole his pants.”

That got an ear twitch.

Exactly.

Then I Remembered the Reindeer

Seeing Mark again opened a little door in my memory.

Several things came through it.

A kiss.

His hands on me.

That look he used to give me when he knew exactly where the evening was heading.

A particularly enjoyable night when neither of us had got much sleep.

Then, for reasons known only to my brain…

The reindeer.

I laughed.

Those bloody boxer shorts.

They’d had flashing reindeer on them.

There are some things you expect to see immediately before having sex with an attractive man.

A reindeer with a flashing red nose isn’t one of them.

Still, it hadn’t stopped me.

Then I remembered Benji.

On another occasion, the little bugger had somehow acquired Mark’s boxer shorts and carried them off to his bed.

Mark had been wandering around my apartment looking for his underwear while Benji sat in another room with them tucked underneath him.

I looked down at the furry criminal currently occupying my lap.

“You remember that, don’t you?”

Benji closed his eyes.

“You took his pants to bed.”

Not even an ear twitch.

“I’m not sure which one of us should be more embarrassed.”

Probably me.

Mark Followed Me Into the Shower

Eventually, Mark disappeared from view.

I finished my coffee.

That should have been that.

Except apparently my brain wasn’t finished with him.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the shower when he wandered back into my thoughts.

Not literally.

That would have been quite a morning.

No, just the memory of him jogging.

Then another memory.

And another.

I stood beneath the water for a moment.

“For God’s sake.”

This was ridiculous.

I hadn’t even spoken to the man.

He’d run past a window.

That was it.

Admittedly, he’d done it while looking rather good.

Very good.

I finished showering, dried my hair, got dressed and decided to behave like the perfectly normal forty-something woman I was.

Then I found the parcel.

This Wasn’t My Moisturiser

I’d brought it upstairs earlier with some other deliveries because I was expecting something myself.

I hadn’t really checked the label.

Why would I?

Parcel downstairs.

I was expecting parcel.

Parcel therefore mine.

Not my finest piece of detective work.

I opened the cardboard box and pulled back some rather lovely tissue paper.

Massage oil.

I paused.

“Okay.”

Next came a black satin blindfold.

Then a pair of expensive-looking silk boxer shorts.

Underneath those were several other beautifully packaged adult products.

I looked into the box.

“Well, someone’s having a better Saturday than I am.”

Benji appeared in the doorway.

“Don’t get excited. There’s nothing in here for you.”

I picked up one of the boxes.

Nice packaging.

Very tasteful.

Then another.

I knew exactly what most of it was.

None of it shocked me. Good grief, I’ve lived a little.

A bottle of massage oil and a satin blindfold were hardly going to have me clutching my pearls.

Then I noticed the label.

Oh.

Shit.

The Parcel Definitely Wasn’t Mine

I picked up the packaging.

Checked again.

Wrong name.

Wrong flat.

Wrong everything.

“Oh, brilliant.”

I’d opened somebody else’s adult parcel.

There is something uniquely awkward about accidentally discovering what another person has ordered for their private entertainment.

It feels far more intrusive than opening their new kettle.

I started putting everything back.

Massage oil.

Blindfold.

Silk boxers.

Mystery item number four.

Then I stopped.

Looked at the blindfold.

And, completely uninvited, Mark appeared in my head again.

“No.”

I put it back.

My imagination could behave itself.

At least until lunchtime.

Then someone knocked at the door.

I froze.

Another knock.

Oh God.

Had the owner already realised?

I carried the box into the hallway and opened the door.

Sharon stood there.

She took one look at my face.

“What have you done?”

“Why does everybody always assume I’ve done something?”

“Because you look guilty.”

“I’ve opened somebody else’s parcel.”

She blinked.

“What is it?”

I held out the box.

Of Course I Asked Sharon

Sharon looked inside.

One eyebrow went up.

I knew that eyebrow.

“Is it yours?”

“Is it yours?”

Her mouth dropped open.

“Why would it be mine?”

I pointed into the box.

“Come on.”

“Sue!”

“You used to review this stuff.”

“That doesn’t mean every vibrator in Suffolk belongs to me.”

“I didn’t say it was a vibrator.”

She looked back into the box.

“Well, one of them is.”

I leaned closer.

“Which one?”

Sharon pointed.

“Oh.”

I looked at it again.

Fair enough.

She reached into the box.

“Actually, that’s quite a good one.”

I stared at her.

And there it was.

That voice.

I knew that voice.

“Are you reviewing it?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m looking.”

“You’ve got your reviewing face on.”

“I don’t have a reviewing face.”

“You absolutely do.”

She turned the box over.

“Good brand.”

“Sharon.”

“What?”

“Is this yours?”

“No.”

Hang On… Does Sharon Still Do This?

Sharon put the box back.

Something she’d said bothered me.

“You said you used to review things.”

“Yes.”

“Used to?”

She hesitated.

Only for a second, but I caught it.

Interesting.

“Are you still doing it?”

“Sometimes.”

“What does sometimes mean?”

“Occasionally.”

“That means exactly the same thing.”

“Then why did you ask?”

I narrowed my eyes.

“How occasionally?”

Sharon reached for the massage oil.

I slapped her hand away.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re touching the evidence.”

“It’s not evidence.”

“It is until we find out who owns it.”

She picked up the bottle anyway.

“This is good.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve reviewed it.”

“Recently?”

Another pause.

Oh, this was getting interesting.

“Sharon?”

“Do you want to find the owner of this parcel or discuss my career?”

“Both.”

Apparently, Sharon Had Standards

She ignored me and continued looking through the box.

“These are expensive.”

She held up the silk boxer shorts.

“How expensive?”

“Forty, maybe fifty pounds.”

“For boxer shorts?”

“They’re silk.”

“For fifty quid, I’d expect them to take themselves off.”

Sharon laughed.

Then she picked up another item.

“I wouldn’t buy this.”

“Why?”

“Overpriced.”

I folded my arms.

“Five minutes ago this wasn’t your parcel. Now you’re doing Which? magazine for sex toys.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Stop reviewing the evidence.”

She put it back.

“Three stars.”

“Sharon.”

“Two and a half.”

“Put it down.”

She smiled.

I’d made a mistake involving her.

I could see that now.

Unfortunately, it was too late.

There Was No Name We Could Read

The delivery label had been damaged.

Most of the name was missing and the flat number had been torn across the middle.

Perfect.

I could have put the parcel back downstairs.

Except I’d opened it.

Leaving an open box of somebody else’s adult products beside the postboxes didn’t seem particularly neighbourly.

“We’ll have to find them,” Sharon said.

“How?”

“Knock on doors.”

I stared at her.

“You want me to go around the apartment block asking people if they’ve lost a vibrator?”

“We don’t have to mention the vibrator.”

“What do we say?”

“Are you expecting a parcel?”

“And if they ask what’s in it?”

“Personal items.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It sounds discreet.”

“It sounds like we’ve got their haemorrhoid cream.”

Sharon shrugged.

“Fine. You think of something.”

I couldn’t.

Five minutes later, the box was hidden inside a large shopping bag.

Off we went.

Two glamorous women in their forties spending Saturday morning delivering what looked like a very ambitious night in.

Perfectly normal.

We Were Not Judging the Neighbours

The first door belonged to a gentleman who always wore a tie.

Even at weekends.

He wasn’t expecting a parcel.

“Thank you,” I said.

We walked away.

His door closed.

Sharon leaned towards me.

“Him.”

“No.”

“Definitely.”

“He just said it wasn’t his.”

“He’s hardly going to admit it.”

“Why not?”

“Because you know what’s in it.”

“He doesn’t know that.”

Sharon thought about this.

“True.”

We walked several more steps.

“Still think it’s him.”

I stopped.

“We are not deciding which neighbours secretly use blindfolds.”

“I’m not.”

“You just did.”

“He’s very quiet.”

“So?”

“It’s always the quiet ones.”

“According to whom?”

Sharon shrugged.

I glanced back at his door.

Smart. Polite. Always immaculate.

Oh, for God’s sake.

Now Sharon had me wondering.

“Stop it,” I muttered.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I was talking to myself.”

I turned around.

Sharon was smiling.

“What?”

“You looked.”

“I did not.”

“You did.”

This was going to be a very long morning.

Apparently, Begonias Were Evidence

The next door was answered by a woman wearing gardening gloves.

She wasn’t expecting anything either.

We thanked her and walked away.

Sharon raised an eyebrow.

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re thinking again.”

“Very confident denial.”

“She’s gardening.”

“Exactly.”

I stopped.

“What have begonias got to do with sex toys?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why did you say exactly?”

Sharon shrugged.

“Quiet hobbies.”

I stared at her.

“That makes absolutely no sense.”

“All I’m saying is you can’t tell by looking at someone.”

“Well, obviously.”

I wondered what my own neighbours thought I did in my spare time.

Then I remembered some of the things I’d actually done in my spare time.

Hmm.

Perhaps I’d better leave the begonias out of it.

Perhaps nobody should be judging anybody.

Especially me.

We carried on.

Then Saturday Sent Me Another Shirtless Man

The next few doors produced nothing.

Then an attractive divorced neighbour from upstairs answered.

No shirt.

Grey jogging bottoms.

Bare chest.

For God’s sake.

Was there something in the water today?

“Morning, Sue.”

“Morning.”

“Everything okay?”

“Fine. We’re looking for the owner of a parcel.”

He glanced at the shopping bag.

“Not mine, sorry.”

“No problem.”

I smiled.

He closed the door.

We walked away.

Sharon lasted three seconds.

“You looked.”

“Of course I looked at him. He opened the door half-naked.”

“Same thing.”

“I was speaking to him. Where was I supposed to look?”

She gave me a sideways glance.

I knew exactly what she meant.

“I was looking at his face.”

“His face isn’t down there.”

I nearly dropped the bag.

“Sharon!”

She burst out laughing.

“I meant his chest!”

“No, you didn’t.”

“No.”

At least she was honest.

Then We Reached That Door

We turned the corner.

Sharon stopped.

I nearly walked into her.

“What?”

She nodded towards the next apartment.

I looked at the number.

Oh.

Mark.

“No.”

“We have to ask.”

“We can miss one.”

“What if it’s his?”

“It won’t be.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t.”

“Exactly.”

I looked at his door.

Only a few hours earlier, I’d watched him jogging past my window.

Now I was standing outside his apartment carrying silk boxer shorts, massage oil, a blindfold and a vibrator.

There are subtle ways to reconnect with a former lover.

This wasn’t one of them.

“I’ll knock,” Sharon said.

“No.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I turned to her.

“You cow.”

She smiled.

Footsteps came from inside.

Then the door opened.

Oh.

Good.

Lord.

He Was Wearing a Towel

Mark.

Wet hair.

Bare chest.

White towel.

That was it.

Just a towel.

And unfortunately, unlike most women who might find themselves standing on his doorstep, I didn’t have the luxury of wondering what was underneath it.

I already knew.

“Sue?”

I looked up.

His face.

Yes.

Much safer.

“Morning.”

“Everything all right?”

“Parcel.”

Brilliant.

Forty-something years on this earth and apparently I’d been reduced to nouns.

Mark frowned.

“Parcel?”

“We’ve got one.”

“I can see that.”

“It isn’t ours.”

“Okay.”

“It was delivered downstairs.”

“Right.”

“And I opened it.”

His mouth twitched.

“Right.”

“Accidentally.”

Beside me, Sharon made a noise.

I didn’t look at her.

If I looked at Sharon, I was going to laugh.

Or kill her.

Possibly both.

Unfortunately, I Knew What Was Underneath It

Mark stepped closer to look at the bag.

The towel stayed where it was.

Thank God.

My eyes stayed where they were too.

Mostly.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Personal items.”

Sharon snorted.

Mark looked at her.

Then back at me.

“What sort of personal items?”

I sighed.

“Adult things.”

His eyebrows lifted.

“Ah.”

That one little ah was all it took.

Suddenly I was acutely aware that I was standing outside the apartment of a man I’d previously slept with while carrying massage oil.

This could not look worse.

Actually, it could.

I could have been wearing the blindfold.

“It’s not mine,” I said.

“I didn’t say it was.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You’ve got that face.”

“What face?”

“The face you get when you’re trying not to say something.”

He smiled.

Oh yes.

That face.

I remembered that face.

Unfortunately, I remembered several other things as well.

Would You Like to Look?

“Do you want to see?” I asked.

Mark looked at me.

Sharon looked at me.

I closed my eyes.

“That came out wrong.”

“Very,” Sharon said.

Mark laughed.

I opened the bag.

He peered inside.

His eyebrows went up.

Then he looked at me.

“Quite a parcel.”

“Is it yours?”

“No.”

Of course it wasn’t.

“Are you sure?”

“I think I’d remember ordering that.”

Sharon leaned towards him.

“Good massage oil.”

I turned.

“Please stop reviewing things.”

Mark looked between us.

“Am I missing something?”

“Yes,” I said.

“No,” Sharon said.

I closed the bag.

“Wonderful. Sorry to bother you.”

I turned to leave.

“Sue?”

I looked back.

Mistake.

Towel.

Chest.

Wet hair.

For heaven’s sake.

“Yes?”

Mark Still Knew Exactly What He Was Doing

“Interesting way of saying hello.”

“I wasn’t saying hello.”

“No?”

“I was looking for the owner of a parcel.”

“Shame.”

There it was.

That little look.

I’d forgotten how good he was at that.

Actually, no.

I hadn’t forgotten at all.

That was the problem.

“It’s been a while,” he said.

“It has.”

“Too long?”

I should have said no.

Instead, I looked at him.

“Possibly.”

His smile changed.

Just slightly.

But I saw it.

So did Sharon.

I knew because she’d suddenly become extremely interested in something on the opposite wall.

Mark leaned against the doorframe.

“Maybe we shouldn’t leave it so long next time.”

My stomach did that irritating little flip it always seemed to do around Mark.

Bloody hell.

Apparently that hadn’t changed either.

Then my eyes betrayed me and dropped for perhaps half a second.

Towel.

Back up.

Mark smiled.

Bugger.

He’d noticed.

“Bye, Mark.”

“Bye, Sue.”

I walked away before any other part of me could embarrass itself.

Sharon Made It About Four Seconds

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

“So…”

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Don’t.”

We reached the stairs.

“Nice towel.”

“Sharon.”

“Very nice.”

I kept walking.

“Good fit.”

“It’s a towel. It doesn’t fit.”

“It seemed to be managing.”

I stopped.

She was grinning.

“You’re enjoying this far too much.”

“So are you.”

“I am not.”

“Sue.”

“What?”

“You looked.”

“I did not.”

Sharon said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

“Fine.”

Her grin widened.

“Once.”

“Twice.”

“Once.”

“Long enough.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Unfortunately, she was right.

Apparently, I Had Been Caught

We started down the stairs.

“So,” Sharon said, “he’s still got it?”

I stopped.

“How do you know I said that?”

“You said it?”

Oh, for God’s sake.

Her face lit up.

“You saw him jogging this morning!”

“I happened to notice him.”

“From where?”

“My window.”

“In your dressing gown?”

“That is completely irrelevant.”

“With coffee?”

“Yes.”

She started laughing.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sharon.”

“I’m just picturing you.”

“I was people-watching.”

“You were Mark-watching.”

“He happened to pass.”

“Slowly?”

“He was jogging.”

“Shame.”

I pushed the stairwell door open.

“Can we please find the owner of this bloody parcel?”

She followed me.

Still laughing.

Then We Found Mrs Fletcher

Back on the ground floor, Mrs Fletcher was standing beside the postboxes.

Mrs Fletcher was in her seventies.

Always immaculate.

Perfect hair.

Perfect clothes.

The sort of woman who could make you feel underdressed while taking the bins out.

She had once complained because somebody left a bicycle in the hallway for eleven minutes.

Not approximately eleven.

Exactly eleven.

She saw us.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“We’re trying to return a parcel.”

Her face changed.

“Does it have a damaged label?”

Sharon and I looked at each other.

“Yes.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

She reached towards the bag.

I held on.

“You’re expecting a parcel?”

“Yes, dear.”

I looked at Sharon.

She looked at me.

No.

Surely not.

Then I remembered the begonias.

Oh God.

Well, This Was Unexpected

I handed Mrs Fletcher the bag.

She opened it.

Looked inside.

Then smiled.

“Oh, marvellous.”

Sharon made a tiny choking noise.

I stared at Mrs Fletcher.

Pearls.

Cardigan.

Blindfold.

My brain was struggling.

“You were expecting… that?”

“Yes.”

She pulled out the silk boxer shorts.

“I chose these myself.”

I glanced at Sharon.

Her lips had disappeared because she was pressing them together so hard.

“They’re lovely,” Sharon managed.

Mrs Fletcher smiled.

“Do you think so?”

“Very good quality.”

“You know the brand?”

“Yes.”

Mrs Fletcher looked interested.

I knew what was coming.

“How?”

“Sharon used to review adult products,” I said.

Sharon’s head snapped towards me.

What?

If I was going down, she was coming with me.

Mrs Fletcher Had Done Her Homework

“They’re for my son and his wife,” Mrs Fletcher explained.

Relief flooded through me.

Far more relief than was reasonable.

“They’re celebrating twenty years of marriage next weekend.”

“How lovely.”

“I told him they needed to make more time for each other.”

Fair enough.

Then she pulled out the massage oil.

“He works far too much.”

“That one’s good,” Sharon said.

I looked at her.

She ignored me.

Mrs Fletcher nodded.

“It had excellent reviews.”

Of course it did.

Then came the blindfold.

“This one had four-point-eight stars.”

Sharon’s eyebrows went up.

“That’s good.”

“I did my research.”

Apparently she had.

“There was another one with feathers,” Mrs Fletcher continued, “but I thought that might be a little much.”

Sharon nodded thoughtfully.

“I think you made the right choice.”

I walked away.

No announcement.

I simply left.

I’d reached my limit.

Sharon Nearly Got Herself a New Career

She caught up with me near the lift.

“You left me!”

“She was asking you about blindfolds.”

“So?”

“Mrs Fletcher!”

“What about her?”

“She’s in her seventies.”

Sharon looked at me.

“And?”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

“Actually, fair point.”

“Exactly.”

“Still. Mrs Fletcher.”

“What do you think happens when women turn seventy, Sue? Everything just seals itself up?”

I nearly walked into the lift doors.

“Jesus Christ, Sharon.”

“What?”

“You can’t say things like that.”

“I just did.”

We stepped into the lift.

“She wants the website I reviewed for.”

I turned.

“You gave it to her?”

“She asked.”

I stared at her.

Then something clicked.

“Reviewed?”

“Yes.”

“You said you still do it occasionally.”

The lift doors opened.

Sharon walked out.

“Did I?”

“Yes!”

She smiled over her shoulder.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

That Should Have Been The End Of My Saturday

By evening, everything was back to normal.

The parcel had found its owner.

Sharon was back in her own apartment.

Mrs Fletcher was presumably online researching things I never wanted to discuss with her again.

I poured myself a glass of wine and settled on the sofa.

Benji curled up beside me.

Peace.

Lovely.

Then Mark walked into my head.

Again.

I took a sip of wine.

“No.”

Unfortunately, my brain wasn’t interested in my opinion.

It replayed the doorway.

Wet hair.

Bare chest.

Towel.

That smile.

Too long?

Then my answer.

Possibly.

Sharon’s eyebrows went up.

“That’s good.”

I Knew Exactly What That Look Meant

I tried watching television.

There was a man taking his shirt off.

I changed channels.

Another man was taking his shirt off.

“Oh, come on.”

Benji looked at me.

“It’s not me. Television’s filthy tonight.”

I switched it off.

Bad idea.

Now it was quiet.

And when it’s quiet, the mind wanders.

Mine wandered straight back to Mark.

We had history.

Proper history.

Not holding-hands-and-going-for-a-nice-walk history.

The other sort.

I knew what that smile meant because I’d seen it before.

Usually shortly before clothing became inconvenient.

Apparently, several weeks apart hadn’t changed that.

More annoyingly, it hadn’t changed my reaction either.

Then my phone lit up.

Mark.

I stared at it.

“Oh, bloody hell.”

Apparently, Mark Hadn’t Forgotten Either

His message was perfectly innocent.

Nice seeing you today.

I smiled.

Then typed:

You too. Sorry about the parcel.

His reply came quickly.

I’m not. Funniest thing that’s happened to me all week.

Glad my humiliation entertained you.

Three dots appeared.

For what it’s worth, I believed you.

I frowned.

About what?

That the parcel wasn’t yours.

I laughed.

Thank you.

Another message arrived.

Although I was slightly disappointed.

There he was.

I knew it.

Disappointed?

His reply:

I saw massage oil. I had questions.

Cheeky sod.

Questions you can keep to yourself.

Three dots.

Can I?

I bit my lip.

Oh, he was good.

Annoyingly good.

Mark Still Knew How To Push My Buttons

I typed:

Behave.

His answer appeared almost immediately.

You never used to ask me to do that.

I stared at the screen.

Then laughed.

“Bloody man.”

Benji opened one eye.

“We are not encouraging him.”

The phone buzzed.

I ignored it.

For perhaps four seconds.

Then picked it up.

Still there?

I typed:

Unfortunately.

Good.

I smiled.

This was dangerous.

Not properly dangerous.

The enjoyable kind.

The kind where you’re sitting on your own sofa knowing perfectly well that the man at the other end of the phone is remembering exactly the same things you are.

I typed:

You haven’t changed.

His answer:

Neither have you.

That one did something.

Damn him.

Then He Asked The Question

A few moments passed.

Another message.

Drink sometime?

I looked at it.

Simple question.

Fourteen characters.

Far too much potential trouble.

I could say no.

Probably should say no.

Mark and I had already demonstrated what happened when the two of us got together.

We talked.

We flirted.

Then at some point, one of us forgot why clothing was necessary.

I looked down at Benji.

“What do you think?”

Nothing.

“Mark wants to go for a drink.”

One ear moved.

“You remember Mark.”

Nothing.

“The boxer shorts?”

His head lifted.

“There we are.”

I pointed at him.

“If he comes round again, you are leaving his underwear alone.”

Benji stared at me.

“At least until he’s taken them off himself.”

I stopped.

“Oh God.”

Even the dog looked shocked.

I Said Maybe

I looked back at the message.

Drink sometime?

My thumb hovered.

No.

Easy.

Sensible.

Then I remembered Mark jogging past the window.

His shirt.

Those shorts.

The towel.

What was underneath the towel.

I sighed.

This wasn’t going well.

Then I remembered his smile.

Maybe we shouldn’t leave it so long next time.

I typed:

Maybe.

His reply came almost immediately.

I’ve heard your maybes before.

Cheeky sod.

Don’t get ahead of yourself.

Three dots appeared.

Wouldn’t dream of it. Sleep well, Sue.

I smiled.

Perfectly respectable.

Almost disappointing.

Then another message arrived.

And if another parcel turns up, you know which door to knock on.

I laughed out loud.

Benji lifted his head.

“Don’t you start.”

I put the phone down.

Some Saturdays Really Do Put The Effort In

That morning, I’d been sitting peacefully by my window drinking coffee.

By lunchtime, I’d discovered Sharon might still be reviewing adult products, accidentally interrogated half the apartment block about somebody else’s sex toys and stood outside Mark’s door while he wore nothing but a towel.

Mrs Fletcher had surprised all of us.

Mark was apparently back.

And I had just agreed…

Well.

Maybe agreed…

to have a drink with him.

I picked up my wine.

Benji settled beside me.

“If Mark comes round again, we’re having rules.”

His eyes stayed closed.

“No stealing boxer shorts.”

Nothing.

“No taking them to your bed.”

Still nothing.

“And if you see flashing reindeer…”

I stopped.

Actually, some things were better left in the past.

I smiled and took another sip of wine.

Although Mark?

Hmm.

I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to leave him there.

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