“Defeated by Freedom: The Story of a Little Bottle”
Owen and I have known each other for years, but true friendship only sparked a couple of summers ago. Both of us had just crawled out of our second messy divorces. We didn’t drown in whisky—no, quite the opposite: gym sessions, bikes, dawn runs. Men aren’t bonded by booze—they’re bound by freedom. And the terror of losing it again.
Owen emerged from his marriage battered, as if he’d been rolled flat by a steamroller instead of a judge. His ex-wife had waged war over every sofa cushion, emotion, and silver spoon. Mine was gentler, but no standing ovation either. We were free at the same time, like shrugging off rucksacks full of bricks.
I remember that evening vividly—cycling through Hyde Park, Owen suddenly let go of the handlebars, threw his arms wide, and bellowed:
“Freeeeeeedom!”
Terriers yapped, old ladies clutched their pearls, and we laughed like a pair of escapees from Bedlam. But it was pure, loud, real happiness.
For a year, we lived untamed: no obligations, no nagging, no drudgery. We shed weight, grew younger, rose with the sun. Turns out, marriage doesn’t just age the soul—it thickens the waist. Freedom heals.
One evening, I dropped by Owen’s—he’d bought a new bike and wanted to show it off. We fussed in the hallway, chain slick with grease, so I ducked into the loo to wash up. And there it was. A tiny pink jar on the shelf. Skincare. A woman’s.
“Oy, Owen!” I called, suspicious. “What’s this witchcraft?”
“Oh! That’s Ellie’s,” he said, casual as you please.
“Who the hell’s Ellie?”
“Right, forgot to mention. Met this girl—Eleanor, solicitor, works like a dog. Stays over sometimes. Left the jar so she doesn’t lug it back and forth.”
I pressed my lips thin.
“It begins.”
“What does?”
“The invasion. First symptom. Like in *Alien*: first the egg, then the slime, then—*rip*—chestburster.”
Owen laughed. I didn’t. Because I knew: women don’t storm barricades. They seep in, slow and quiet. No shouting, no smashing—just creeping into a bloke’s life like smoke under a door. First a jar. Then a toothbrush. Then slippers. Then *her*.
A week later, he invited me round to meet her. Ellie was sharp—calm, pearl earrings, cashmere jumper fit for a Mayfair brunch. Fed us spaghetti and a pineapple pizza (bloody heresy). Washing up, I spotted *two* toothbrushes now—and another bottle. I just snorted: “Virus is spreading.”
Then came the evening Owen didn’t show for our ride.
“Can’t tonight, mate,” he said.
I cycled over anyway, furious, hellbent on dragging him out of this trap.
He answered the door in a *dressing gown*. A dressing gown! On a man who’d lived in trainers and joggers a month prior!
“Alex, could’ve rung first—”
From the bedroom:
“Owen, who’s there?”
“Just… Alex. Borrowing the pump.”
I ducked into the loo. Knew at once: the bathroom wasn’t his anymore. His shaving foam huddled in the corner like a besieged soldier. The shelves? A pink empire of lotions. A pair of earrings on the ledge. Total surrender.
Later, I helped assemble their IKEA monstrosity. Screws, shelves, wardrobes. Ellie commanded like a general:
“That—balcony. That—bin. And *that*—out.”
Owen muttered protests. Useless. Then she turned to me:
“You want his bike? It’s just gathering dust.”
And that was that. Freedom doesn’t fall with a battle cry. It dies softly—to the rustle of a dress, the scent of hand cream. A woman arrives, and bit by bit, she takes it all: the shelf, the hook, the windowsill, the cupboard. Then—your soul.
A year passed. Texts with Owen grew sparse. His bike collected cobwebs. I rode alone. Grim. But free.
Then *she* came for me. A month in, the timid ask:
“Mind if I leave my moisturiser here?”
I didn’t say no. I grinned. Like an idiot. Because I’d already fallen.
Now it’s done. The jar’s on the shelf. The enemy’s playbook never changes.
I’m done for.
Goodbye, freedom.
