**Defeated by Freedom: The Tale of a Little Bottle**
Oliver and I had known each other for years, but true friendship only blossomed a couple of summers ago. We had both just crawled out of our second divorces—bruised, but not broken. We didn’t drown ourselves in drink; instead, we threw ourselves into cycling, morning runs, the kind of things men do when they’re clinging to something harder to name. Freedom, maybe. Or the fear of losing it all over again.
Oliver had been dragged through the wringer in court—less a legal battle than a demolition. His ex had fought over every teacup, every emotion. Mine had been quieter, but no less final. We emerged battered but lighter, like men who’d shrugged off sacks of wet cement.
I remember that evening vividly—riding through Hyde Park on our bikes, the air thick with summer. Oliver suddenly let go of the handlebars, arms spread wide, and roared into the twilight:
“Freeeeeedom!”
Poodles yapped, old ladies tutted, and we laughed like madmen escaped from Bedlam. But it was real. That wild, reckless joy.
For a year, we lived like kings. No obligations, no nagging, no dull domestic grind. We lost weight, woke with the sun. Marriage, we discovered, didn’t just age the soul—it thickened the waistline. Freedom was the cure.
Then, one evening, I dropped by Oliver’s—he’d bought a new bike and wanted to show it off. We tinkered in the hallway, oil smeared on our hands, and I headed to the loo to wash up. And there it was. A small pink bottle on the shelf. Women’s moisturiser.
“Oi, Ollie!” I called out, suspicion sharp in my voice. “What’s this witchcraft?”
“Oh, that?” He shrugged, casual as Sunday morning. “Emily’s.”
“Who the hell is Emily?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Met this girl—Emily, solicitor, works late. Stays over sometimes. Left a few things.”
I clenched my jaw.
“Here we go…”
“What?”
“The invasion. First symptom. Like in *Alien*—first the drop, then the slime, then the monster bursting through your ribs.”
Oliver laughed. I didn’t. I knew better. Women don’t storm the gates—they seep in. No battering rams needed, just quiet persistence. First a bottle. Then a toothbrush. Then slippers. Then *her*.
A week later, he invited me round to meet her. Emily—elegant, poised, in pearl earrings and a cashmere jumper. She served us pasta and pineapple pizza (a crime, but I kept quiet). In the bathroom, two toothbrushes now sat where one had been. I snorted. “The infection’s spreading.”
Then came the evening Oliver didn’t join me for our ride.
“Can’t tonight,” he said.
I went alone, fuming, determined to drag him back from the brink.
He answered the door in a dressing gown. A *dressing gown*—on the man who once lived in trainers and board shorts.
“Alex, mate, you could’ve called…”
From the bedroom, a voice:
“Oliver, who’s that?”
“Just… Alex. Borrowing the pump.”
I washed my hands. The bathroom was no longer his. Shaving cream and toothpaste huddled in a corner, outflanked by an army of pink bottles. A pair of earrings on the shelf. Total surrender.
Later, I helped assemble furniture—shelves, wardrobes, the whole domestic gauntlet. Emily directed like a general: *That goes on the balcony. That’s rubbish. Take this away.* Oliver protested. Futile. Then she turned to me:
“You don’t want his bike, do you? It’s just gathering dust.”
And just like that. Freedom doesn’t die screaming. It slips away in whispers—rustling skirts, the scent of lotion. A woman arrives, and inch by inch, she reclaims it all: the shelf, the hook, the windowsill, the heart.
A year passed. Texts from Oliver grew rare. His bike collected cobwebs. I rode alone. Bitter, 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 gone.
Now it’s done. The bottle sits on the shelf. The enemy’s tactics never change.
I’m lost.
Goodbye, freedom.
