First the cream, then everything else.
Tom and I have known each other for about fifteen years. But we only really became close a couple of years ago—when we both got divorced almost at the same time. His second marriage ended with slamming doors and shouting matches. Mine was quieter, but still not without its upheavals. We didn’t drown in vodka or self-pity—we just pedalled along riverbanks and raced down woodland trails. Bikes, sweat, and wind in our faces. Male friendship isn’t bound by alcohol but by a hunger for freedom. The kind where you don’t answer to anyone, don’t explain yourself, don’t drag a backpack full of other people’s expectations.
We both lost weight fast. The gut that once hung neatly over the belt vanished completely. Freedom—it even cures the belly. And then, one warm July evening, we’re cycling through the park. Tom suddenly lets go of the handlebars, throws his arms wide, tilts his head back, and yells across the square:
“Freeeeedom!”
The pensioners’ dogs go wild, barking hysterically. And he just laughs. So happy it’s almost unfair.
We lived like that for a year—single, content, lean, accountable to no one. Then one day, I dropped by Tom’s place. He’d got a new bike—wanted to show it off. I ran my hands over the frame, spun the wheels, got grease on my fingers, and went to the bathroom to wash up. And that’s when I saw it: a small pink pot with a gold lid. Cream.
“Tom!” I shouted. “What’s this? You using cream now?”
He laughed like a man caught red-handed.
“Emily’s. She left it so she wouldn’t have to lug it back and forth.”
“Emily? Who’s that?”
“Oh. Did I not tell you?”
Of course he hadn’t. A shame.
Turns out, a month ago, he’d met a woman. Emily, a lawyer, building her career. Pleasant, clever, good-looking. Stays over sometimes. Left her cream. Just one pot. 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 gets inside you. Then it grows and eats you alive. That cream—that’s the embryo.”
Tom waved me off. But I knew what I was talking about. Women don’t rush. They move elegantly. No screaming or suitcases barging in. They leave a pot. Then a toothbrush. Then a pillow. They wait for you to relax. And then—before you know it—the bathroom’s full of pink, the balcony’s stacked with boxes, and your heart’s crammed with worry.
Soon, Tom invited me over to meet her. Emily turned out to be surprisingly lovely. Stud earrings, neat hair, a smile you couldn’t help but trust. She’d baked a pineapple pizza—controversial, but tasty.
I went to the bathroom again. There was now a pink toothbrush and hand cream. The earrings rested peacefully in the soap dish. I caught my reflection in the mirror:
“That’s it, mate. Infected.”
Another month passed. I suggested our favourite cycling route. Tom made excuses. I turned up in person to drag him out. He shuffled to the door in a dressing gown, bleary-eyed.
“Alex, at least call first.”
Emily’s voice from the bedroom:
“Tom, who’s there?”
Him:
“Just Alex… popped round…”
I went to wash my hands—and knew it was over. The men’s toothpaste, shaving foam, and aftershave were huddled in the corner like refugees. Everything else—pots, bottles, tubes, scents. And on the sink, her earrings. Not guests anymore. Owners.
I left without a word.
A fortnight later, he called me over to help assemble a wardrobe. We chucked out junk, shifted furniture. Emily directed:
“Right, this goes to the tip. No, that too! Books—over here!”
Tom tried to argue weakly—she stepped over his protests like scattered socks.
“Hey, d’you want his bike?” she asked me. “Only it’s taking up space on the balcony.”
That’s when I knew for certain. Tom’s freedom was dead. Gone. First—the little pot of cream. Then—the whole flat. Then—the balcony. Then—his heart.
Men! If you value your independence—don’t let women into your space. Not an inch. It starts with an “innocent” pot of cream. It ends and you don’t even remember who you are, where you came from, or why there’s a lace-trimmed dressing gown in your wardrobe.
A year passed. Tom and I texted rarely. I cycled alone. It was lonely. But I still had the main thing—freedom.
Then I met Lucy. Classic story. Sweet, kind, asks for nothing. Just once, quietly, almost whispering:
“Can I leave some cream at yours? So I don’t have to carry it?”
And I didn’t say no. Because I was in love.
Now it’s done. The virus is in.
And I can feel my downfall coming.
Forgive me, brothers.
Goodbye.
