Tom and I have known each other for fifteen years, but we only became proper mates a couple of years ago—after we both got divorced around the same time. His second marriage ended with slammed doors and shouting matches. Mine was quieter, but still left its scars. We didn’t drown in whiskey or self-pity—just pedalled along riverbanks and raced down woodland trails. Bikes, sweat, wind in our faces. Male friendship isn’t built on booze but on the chase for freedom—the kind where you answer to no one, explain nothing, and carry no sack of other people’s expectations.
We both slimmed down fast. The gut that once sagged over the belt vanished without a trace. Freedom, it turns out, is also a weight-loss plan. One warm July evening, we were cycling through the park when Tom suddenly let go of the handlebars, threw his arms wide, tilted his head back, and bellowed:
“Freeeeeedom!”
The pensioners’ terriers yapped in hysterics. He just laughed—so happy it stung with envy.
We lived like that for a year—single, content, lean, owing nobody a thing. Then one day, I dropped by Tom’s. He’d bought a new bike and wanted to show off. I ran my hands over the frame, twisted the grips, smeared my palms with grease, and went to wash up. As I scrubbed, my eyes landed on a little pink pot with a gold lid. Face cream.
“Tom!” I shouted. “What’s this? You moisturising now?”
He laughed like a man caught red-handed.
“It’s Emily’s. She left it here so she wouldn’t have to lug it back and forth.”
“Emily? Who’s that?”
“Ah… didn’t I mention her?”
Of course he hadn’t. Mistake.
Turns out, a month earlier, he’d met a girl. Emily, a solicitor, climbing the career ladder. Charming, clever, easy on the eyes. Stays over sometimes. Left the cream. Just one pot. For now.
“Right,” I said. “The invasion’s begun.”
“What invasion?”
“You don’t get it? It’s like *Alien*. First, the embryo nests inside. Then it grows and eats you alive. That cream’s the embryo.”
Tom waved me off. But I knew what I was talking about. Women don’t rush. They work with finesse. They don’t storm in with suitcases and demands. They leave a pot. Then a hairbrush. Then a pillow. They wait till you’re comfortable. Then—before you know it—the bathroom’s pink, the balcony’s cluttered, and your heart’s rattling with worry.
Soon after, Tom invited me round to meet her. Emily was surprisingly lovely—pierced ears, neat bob, a smile you couldn’t help trusting. She’d made pineapple pizza (controversial, but tasty).
I slipped into the loo. A pink hairbrush and hand cream now sat by the sink. Earrings lounged in the soap dish. I caught my reflection:
“Mate, you’re infected.”
A month later, I asked Tom to ride our favourite route. He made excuses. I showed up to drag him out. He shuffled to the door in a dressing gown, half-asleep.
“Alex, you could’ve called.”
Emily’s voice floated from the bedroom:
“Tommy, who’s there?”
Him:
“Alex… bike pump… dropped by…”
I washed up—and saw the end. His shaving foam and aftershave huddled in the corner like refugees. The rest was a battalion of pots, bottles, tubes, perfumes. And her earrings, sprawled on the sink like they owned the place.
I left without a word.
Two weeks on, he called for help assembling a wardrobe. We chucked junk, shifted furniture. Emily directed:
“That goes to the tip. No, that too! Books—over here!”
Tom mumbled some feeble protest—she stepped over it like discarded socks.
“D’you want his bike?” she asked me. “It’s just taking up space on the balcony.”
That’s when I knew for sure. Tom’s freedom was dead. Gone. First, the cream. Then the house. Then the balcony. Then his heart.
Men! If you treasure your independence—don’t let women into your space. Not an inch. It starts with “just a little pot.” It ends with you forgetting who you are, where you came from, and why there’s a lace-trimmed dressing gown in your wardrobe.
A year passed. Tom and I texted sparingly. I rode alone. It was lonely. But I still had the one thing that mattered—freedom.
Then I met Grace. Classic story. Sweet, kind, asks for nothing. Just once, softly, almost a whisper:
“Can I leave my moisturiser here? 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.
Farewell.
