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 around the same time. His second marriage ended with slammed doors and shouting matches. Mine was quieter but still left its mark. We didn’t drown in vodka or self-pity—just pedalled along riverbanks and raced down woodland trails. Bikes, sweat, wind in our faces. Male friendship isn’t built on booze, but on the chase for freedom. The kind where you answer to no one, explain nothing, and carry no backpack of other people’s expectations.
We both shed weight fast. The gut that once draped over my belt vanished without a trace. Freedom—it even cures love handles. Then one warm July evening, Tom and I are cycling through the park when he suddenly lets go of the handlebars, throws his arms wide, tips his head back, and yells:
“Freeeeedom!”
The pensioners’ terriers lose their minds, yapping madly. And Tom? He’s howling with laughter, stupidly happy.
We lived like that for a year—single, content, lean, owing nobody a thing. Until one day, I dropped by Tom’s place. He’d got a new mountain bike and was itching to show it off. I ran my hand over the frame, spun the wheels, got grease on my palms, then headed to the loo to wash up. And there, while scrubbing my hands, I spotted it—a little pink jar. Feminine, with a gold lid. Moisturiser.
“Tom!” I shouted. “Since when do you use face cream?”
He laughed like a man caught red-handed.
“Nah, that’s Lizzie’s. She left it here so she doesn’t have to lug it back and forth.”
“Lizzie? Who the hell’s Lizzie?”
“Right… didn’t I mention her?”
Course he hadn’t. Bloody typical.
Turns out, a month earlier, he’d met a woman. Lizzie, a solicitor, climbing the career ladder. Smart, nice-looking, the whole package. Stays over sometimes. Left her cream. Just one jar. For now.
“That’s it,” I said. “The invasion’s begun.”
“What invasion?”
“Don’t you get it? It’s like *Alien*. First, the embryo slips inside you. Then it grows. Then it eats you alive. That cream? That’s the embryo.”
Tom brushed it off. But I knew what I was on about. Women don’t rush. They’re subtle. They don’t barge in screaming with suitcases. They leave a jar. Then a toothbrush. Then a pillow. They wait till you let your guard down. And then—then you don’t even notice when the bathroom’s full of pink bottles, the balcony’s stacked with boxes, and your chest’s tight with dread.
Soon after, Tom invited me round to meet her. Lizzie was surprisingly decent. Pearl earrings, neat hair, a smile that made it hard not to trust her. She’d baked a Hawaiian pizza—questionable choice, but tasty.
I slipped off to the loo. There it was—the pink toothbrush, hand cream. Earrings resting in the soap dish. I caught my reflection in the mirror and muttered: “Mate, you’re infected.”
Another month passed. 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.
“Al, you should’ve rung first.”
From the bedroom, Lizzie’s voice: “Tommy, who’s there?”
Him: “Al… just popped by… pump issue…”
I went to wash up—and knew straight away. Game over. His shaving foam and aftershave were huddled in the corner like refugees. The rest? Bottles, tubes, perfumes. And on the sink—her earrings. Not visiting. *Living* there.
I left without a word.
A fortnight later, he called me over to help build a wardrobe. We chucked junk, shifted furniture. Lizzie orchestrated:
“That goes in the bin. That too! Books—stack them in here!”
Tom half-arsed a protest—she stepped over his words like stray socks.
“Hey, d’you want his bike?” she asked me. “It’s just taking up space on the balcony.”
That’s when I knew for sure. Tom’s freedom was dead. No coming back. First—a jar of cream. Then—the whole house. Then—the balcony. Then—his heart.
Lads—if you value your independence, don’t let them in. Not an inch. It starts with an “innocent” moisturiser. Ends with you forgetting who you are, where you came from, and why there’s a bloody lace-trimmed dressing gown in your cupboard.
A year rolled by. Tom and I barely texted. I rode alone. It got lonely. But I still had the prize—freedom.
Then I met Emily. Classic story. Sweet, undemanding. Asked for nothing. Just once, quietly, almost whispering:
“Can I leave my moisturiser here? 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.
I’m done for.
