Tom and I have known each other for fifteen years, but we only became close friends a couple of years ago—after we both got divorced around the same time. His second marriage ended with slamming doors and shouting matches, mine more quietly, though not without its own turmoil. We didn’t drown in vodka or self-pity—we just pedaled along the riverbanks and raced down forest trails. Bikes, sweat, wind in our faces. Male friendship isn’t about booze; it’s about craving freedom. The kind where you answer to no one, explain nothing, and carry no backpack full of other people’s expectations.
We both lost weight fast. The gut that once hung neatly over the belt was gone. Freedom—it even cures the belly. And then, one warm July evening, we were cycling through the park when Tom suddenly let go of the handlebars, spread his arms, tilted his head back, and bellowed:
“Freeeeeeedom!”
The pensioners’ poodles went berserk. He just laughed—so happy it was almost annoying.
We lived like that for a year—single, content, lean, owing no one. Until one day, I dropped by Tom’s place. He’d just got a new bike and was eager to show it off. I ran my hands over the frame, twisted the handlebars, got grease on my fingers, then headed to the loo to wash up. And there, as I scrubbed my palms, my eyes landed on a little pink tub. Feminine, with a gold lid. Moisturiser.
“Tom!” I shouted. “What’s this? You using face cream now?”
He laughed like a kid caught with his hand in the biscuit tin.
“Nah, it’s Emma’s. She left it here so she wouldn’t have to lug it back and forth.”
“Emma? Who’s Emma?”
“Blimey, didn’t I tell you?”
Of course he hadn’t. Pity, that.
Turns out, a month earlier he’d met a girl. Emma, a solicitor, ambitious. Pleasant, clever, easy on the eyes. Stays over sometimes. Left her moisturiser. Just one tub. For now.
“That’s it,” I said. “The invasion’s begun.”
“What invasion?”
“Don’t you get it? It’s like in *Alien*. First—the embryo. Then it grows and eats you from the inside. This cream is the embryo.”
Tom waved me off. But I knew what I was talking about. Women don’t rush. They’re subtle. No shouting, no suitcases barging in. They leave a tub. Then a toothbrush. Then a pillow. They wait till you let your guard down. And then… before you know it, the bathroom’s full of pink bottles, the balcony’s crammed with boxes, and your heart’s weighed down with worries.
Not long after, Tom invited me round to meet her. Emma was surprisingly likeable. Small stud earrings, neat bob, a smile you couldn’t help but trust. She’d made pineapple pizza—questionable choice, but tasty.
I nipped to the loo again. Now there was a pink toothbrush and hand cream. And her earrings sat on the soap dish like they owned the place. I caught my reflection in the mirror: “Mate, you’re done for.”
A month later, I suggested Tom join me on our old cycling route. He made excuses. I showed up to drag him out. He shuffled to the door in a dressing gown, bleary-eyed.
“Al, you could’ve rung.”
From the bedroom, Emma’s voice: “Tommy, who’s that?”
Him: “Just Al… popped round… bike pump…”
I went to wash up—and knew straight away: game over. His shaving foam, razor, and aftershave huddled in the corner like unwanted guests. The rest? Jars, bottles, tubes, perfumes. And on the sink—her earrings. Not visiting. Living.
I left in silence.
Two weeks later, he asked me to help assemble a wardrobe. We chucked junk, shifted furniture. Emma 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.
“Listen,” she said to me, “d’you want his bike? It’s just taking up space on the balcony.”
That’s when I knew for sure. Tom’s freedom was gone. Extinct. First—the tub of cream. Then—the whole flat. Then—the balcony. Then—his heart.
Lads! If you value your independence—don’t let women into your space. Not an inch. It starts with an “innocent” moisturiser. It ends with you wondering who you are, where you came from, and why there’s a lace-trimmed dressing gown in your wardrobe.
A year passed. Tom and I barely texted. I cycled alone. It was lonely. But I still had the main thing—freedom.
And then I met Sophie. Classic story. Sweet, kind, asks for nothing. Just once, softly, almost whispering:
“Mind if I leave some cream here? So I don’t have to keep bringing it?”
And I didn’t say no. Because I was in love.
Now it’s over. The virus is in.
And I know—my downfall’s coming.
Forgive me, brothers.
Farewell.
