Tom and I had known each other for fifteen years, but we only became close mates a couple of years back—right after we both got divorced around the same time. His second marriage had ended with slamming doors and shouting matches, while mine was quieter, though not without its own scars. We didn’t drown in vodka or self-pity—we just cycled along the riverbanks and through woodland trails. Bikes, sweat, and wind in our faces. Real friendship between men isn’t built on booze but on the chase for freedom—the kind where you answer to no one, justify nothing, and carry no backpack of other people’s expectations.
We both shed weight fast. The little belly that once draped over our belts vanished. Freedom, it turns out, is a great diet. One warm July evening, we were biking through the park when Tom suddenly let go of the handlebars, threw his arms wide, tilted his head back, and bellowed:
—FREEEEDOM!
Nearby, pensioners’ dogs yapped in a frenzy. He just laughed, the kind of happy that makes you jealous.
For a year, we lived like that—single, content, lean, owing nothing to anyone. Until one day, I dropped by Tom’s place. He’d got a new bicycle and was itching to show it off. I ran my hands over the frame, spun the wheels, got grease on my palms, and headed to the loo to wash up. And there, as I rinsed my hands, my eyes landed on a little pink jar—dainty, feminine, with a gold lid. Moisturiser.
—Tom! I yelled. What’s this? You using face cream now?
He chuckled, like a man caught red-handed.
—Nah, it’s Emily’s. Left it here so she doesn’t have to lug it back and forth.
—Emily? Who’s that?
—Oh… didn’t I mention her?
Of course he hadn’t. Pity, that.
Turns out, he’d met a woman a month prior. Emily, a solicitor, ambitious, sharp, lovely. Stays over sometimes. Left the cream. Just one jar. For now.
—Right, I said. Invasion’s begun.
—What invasion?
—Don’t you see? It’s like that film, *Alien*. First, the embryo nests inside you. Then it grows and eats you alive. That cream’s the embryo.
Tom waved me off. But I knew what I was talking about. Women don’t rush. They’re subtle. They don’t storm in screaming with suitcases. They leave a jar. Then a hairbrush. Then a pillow. They wait till you’re comfortable. And then—before you know it—the bathroom’s pink, the balcony’s cluttered, and your heart’s full of doubts.
Soon, Tom invited me round to meet her. Emily was surprisingly nice—small stud earrings, neat hair, a smile you couldn’t help but trust. She’d made pineapple pizza (bold choice, but tasty).
I ducked into the bathroom again. Now there was a pink hairbrush, hand cream. Earrings resting in the soap dish. I caught my reflection:
—Mate, you’re infected.
Another month passed. I asked Tom to ride our usual route. He made excuses. I showed up to drag him out. He shuffled to the door in a dressing gown, half-asleep.
—Al, could’ve called first.
Emily’s voice from inside:
—Tommy, who’s there?
Him:
—Just Al… popped round…
I went to wash up—and knew right away: it was over. His shaving foam and aftershave were huddled in a corner. The rest? Bottles, tubes, scents. And her earrings on the sink—not visiting, but living there.
I left without a word.
Weeks later, he asked for help assembling a wardrobe. We chucked junk, shifted furniture. Emily directed:
—That goes. No, that too! Books—here!
Tom mumbled something weak. She stepped over his protests 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. First the cream. Then the house. Then the balcony. Then his heart.
Lads—if you value your independence, don’t let a woman into your space. Not an inch. It starts with a ‘harmless’ pot of cream. Ends with you wondering who you are, why your wardrobe holds a lace-trimmed dressing gown.
A year passed. Tom and I barely spoke. I cycled alone. It was lonely. But I still had the one thing that mattered—freedom.
Then I met Sophie. Classic story—sweet, kind, asked for nothing. Except once, soft as a whisper:
—Mind if I leave my moisturiser here? Saves me carrying it.
I didn’t say no. Because I was smitten.
Now it’s done. The virus is in.
And I can feel my downfall coming.
Forgive me, brothers.
Farewell.
