**Defeated by Freedom: The Tale of a Little Bottle**
I’ve known Oliver for years, but true friendship only blossomed a couple of years ago. Both of us had just gone through brutal second divorces. Instead of drowning in drink, we threw ourselves into cycling, morning runs, and gym sessions. It wasn’t alcohol that bound us—it was freedom. And the fear of losing it again.
Oliver emerged from his marriage like a man who’d been run over, not by the courts, but by a steamroller. His ex-wife fought tooth and nail over every spoon in the cutlery set, every emotion, every last possession. Mine was less explosive, but no walk in the park either. We found ourselves free at the same time, as if we’d shrugged off rucksacks full of bricks.
I remember that evening vividly—cycling through Hyde Park, Oliver suddenly let go of the handlebars, arms spread wide, and bellowed:
*“FREE-DO-O-O-O-M!”*
Passing dogs barked, old ladies tutted, and we laughed like two escapees from Bedlam. But that was happiness—raw, loud, and real.
For a year, we lived untethered. No obligations, no nagging, no domestic drudgery. We shed weight, grew younger, rose with the sun. Marriage, it seemed, didn’t just age the soul—it padded the waist. Freedom was the cure.
Then one evening, I dropped by Oliver’s place—he’d bought a new bike and wanted to show it off. We tinkered in the hallway, chain grease everywhere, so I went to wash up. And there it was. A small pink pot on the shelf. Women’s face cream.
*“Oi, Ollie!”* I called, suspicious. *“What’s this witchcraft?”*
*“Oh! That’s Charlotte’s,”* he replied, as if it were nothing.
*“Who the hell is Charlotte?”*
Turns out, he’d met a woman—a corporate lawyer named Charlotte, worked long hours, sometimes stayed over. Left the pot so she wouldn’t have to lug it back and forth.
I pressed my lips together. *“It’s begun.”*
*“What has?”*
*“The invasion. First symptom. Like in ‘Alien’—first the spore, then the slime, then the thing bursting through your ribcage.”*
Oliver laughed. I didn’t. Because I knew—women don’t storm the gates. They seep in, quiet as smoke under a door. First the pot. Then a toothbrush. Then slippers. Then *her*.
A week later, he invited me to meet her. Charlotte was elegant—pearl earrings, a cashmere jumper, perfectly plated pasta and Hawaiian pizza. When I washed my hands, I spotted two toothbrushes now—and another bottle. I snorted. *“Virus spreading.”*
Then came the evening Oliver didn’t join me for our ride. *“Can’t tonight,”* he muttered. I went alone, fuming, determined to drag him out of the trap.
He answered the door in a *dressing gown*. A dressing gown! The man who’d lived in trainers and cargo shorts barely a month ago. *“Alex, you could’ve called—”*
From the bedroom, a voice: *“Oliver, who is it?”*
*“Uh… just Alex. Needed the pump.”*
I went to wash up. The bathroom wasn’t his anymore. His shaving cream and toothpaste were exiled to a corner. The rest? A pastel empire of pots. Earrings on the shelf. Total surrender.
Later, I helped them move furniture. Flat-pack assembly, screws, wardrobes. Charlotte directed like a sergeant: *“This—on the balcony. That—bin it.”* Oliver tried to argue. Pointless. At one point, she turned to me: *“You don’t want his bike, do you? It’s just gathering dust.”*
And that was that. Freedom doesn’t fall with a bang. It dies in whispers—under rustling silk and lavender lotion. A woman arrives, reclaiming every inch: the shelf, the hook, the sill, the cupboard. Then—the soul.
A year passed. Oliver and I texted sporadically. His bike collected dust. Replies grew scarce. I cycled alone. Glum. But free.
Then *she* came for me. A month in, the timid question: *“Can I leave my moisturiser here?”*
I didn’t say no. I smiled. Like an idiot. Because I was already in love.
Now, the pot sits there. The blueprint of invasion remains unchanged.
I’m done for. Completely.
Goodbye, freedom.
