**Defeated by Freedom: The Story of a Little Bottle**
Tom and I had known each other for years, but true friendship only blossomed a couple of years ago. We’d both gone through messy divorces—our second ones. We didn’t drown our sorrows in drink; quite the opposite. We took up cycling, morning runs, anything to stay active. Men don’t bond over alcohol—they bond over freedom. And the fear of losing it again.
Tom left his marriage battered, as if he’d been run over by a steamroller instead of a divorce court. His ex had waged war over every sofa, emotion, and teaspoon. Mine was less dramatic, but still no walk in the park. We were free at last, like we’d shrugged off concrete sacks.
I remember that evening well. We were cycling through Hyde Park when Tom suddenly let go of the handlebars, spread his arms wide, and screamed at the top of his lungs:
“Freeeeeeeeedom!”
The neighborhood dogs barked, old ladies clutched their pearls, and we laughed like a pair of escaped lunatics. But it was happiness—pure, loud, and real.
For a year, we lived like kings—no obligations, no nagging, no domestic drudgery. We slimmed down, felt younger, rose with the sun. Turns out, marriage doesn’t just age the soul—it thickens the waistline. Freedom heals.
One evening, I dropped by Tom’s place—he’d bought a new bike and wanted to show it off. We fussed with the chain, which was slick with oil, so I went to wash up. And there it was. A little pink bottle on the shelf. Cosmetics. Women’s.
“Tom!” I called suspiciously. “What’s this witchcraft?”
“Oh, that’s Lucy’s,” he replied, as if it were nothing.
“Who the hell is Lucy?”
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? Met this girl—Lucy, solicitor, works long hours. Stays over sometimes. Left her bottle here so she doesn’t have to lug it around.”
I pressed my lips together.
“It’s started.”
“What’s started?”
“The invasion. First symptom. Like in *Alien*—first the egg, then the slime, then the chestburster.”
Tom laughed. I didn’t. Because I knew: women don’t attack head-on. They seep in. No shouting, no breaking down doors—just sliding into a man’s life like smoke under a doorway. First a bottle. Then a toothbrush. Then slippers. Then her.
A week later, he invited me over to meet her. Lucy was beautiful, composed, in elegant earrings and a cashmere sweater. She served pasta and Hawaiian pizza. When I washed my hands, I saw two toothbrushes—and another bottle. I just smirked. “The virus spreads.”
Then came the evening Tom didn’t join me for a ride.
“Can’t tonight,” he said.
I went alone, annoyed, determined to drag him back from the brink.
He opened the door in a dressing gown. A dressing gown! On a man who, just a month ago, lived in shorts and trainers without socks.
“Mike, you could’ve called first…”
From the bedroom came a voice:
“Tom, who’s there?”
“Oh, it’s just Mike. Borrowing the pump.”
I went to wash up. The bathroom wasn’t his anymore. His shaving cream and toothpaste huddled in the corner, surrounded by a pink empire of bottles. Earrings on the shelf. Total surrender.
Later, I helped them assemble furniture. Shelves, wardrobes, the works. Lucy directed like a drill sergeant:
“That goes on the balcony. That’s rubbish. And that—out.”
Tom tried arguing. Useless. Then she turned to me:
“Don’t suppose you want his bike? It’s just gathering dust.”
And that was it. Freedom doesn’t die with a bang. It fades quietly—under the rustle of a dress and the scent of lotion. A woman arrives and claims every inch: a shelf, a hook, a windowsill, a wardrobe. Then your soul.
A year passed. Tom and I texted sporadically. His bike collected dust. He replied less and less. I rode alone. Glum, but free.
Then She came into my life. A month in, the timid question:
“Mind if I leave my moisturiser here?”
I didn’t say no. I smiled like an idiot. Because I was already in love.
Now it’s done. The bottle’s already there. The enemy’s tactics unchanged.
I’m lost. Entirely.
Goodbye, freedom.
