*The Vanquished by Freedom: A Tale of a Tiny Bottle*
Oleg and I had known each other for years, but true friendship only sparked a couple of winters back. Both of us had just crawled out of our second divorces—bruised, but not broken. We didn’t drown in drink, no. Instead, we drowned in sweat: cycling, morning runs, punishing ourselves into shape. Men aren’t bound by booze—they’re bound by freedom. And the terror of losing it again.
Oleg emerged from his marriage looking like he’d been rolled flat by a steamroller, not a judge. His ex had waged war over every spoon in the cutlery drawer, every emotion, every inch of carpet. Mine had been gentler, but no standing ovation either. We shed our pasts at the same time, like shrugging off rucksacks full of wet cement.
I remember that evening clearly—cycling through Hyde Park, Oleg suddenly let go of the handlebars, spread his arms, and roared at the sky:
“Freeeeeeedom!”
Terriers yapped, old ladies clutched their pearls, and we laughed like a pair of lunatics escaped from Bedlam. But it was joy. Raw, loud, unashamed.
For a year, we lived like wild things: no nagging, no obligations, no drudgery. We trimmed down, woke with the sun, felt young again. Marriage, it turned out, didn’t just age the soul—it thickened the waist. Freedom was the cure.
Then, one evening, I dropped by Oleg’s—he’d bought a new bike, wanted to show it off. We tinkered in the hallway, chain grease everywhere, so I went to wash up. And there it was. A little pink pot on the shelf. Women’s cream.
“Oleeeeg!” I called, suspicion sharp in my voice. “What’s this witchcraft?”
“Oh! That’s Ellie’s,” he said, casual as you please.
“Who the hell’s Ellie?”
“Didn’t I mention? Met a girl. Eleanor, solicitor, works late. Stays over sometimes. Left a few bits. Saves lugging them about.”
I pressed my lips tight.
“It’s begun…”
“What has?”
“The invasion. First symptom. Like in ‘Alien’—first a drop, then the slime, then the creature bursting through your ribs.”
Oleg laughed. I didn’t. Because I knew: women don’t storm the gates. They seep in, quiet as fog under a door. First a pot. Then a toothbrush. Then slippers. Then her.
A week later, he invited me over to meet her. Ellie—elegant, calm, dangling pearl earrings, wrapped in cashmere. Fed us pasta and pineapple pizza. Washing up, I spotted two toothbrushes now, and another bottle. I just snorted: “The infection spreads.”
Then came the evening Oleg didn’t join me for a ride.
“Can’t tonight,” he said.
I pedaled alone, furious, determined to drag him back from the brink.
He answered the door in a dressing gown. A dressing gown! On a man who’d lived in trainers and shorts a month prior!
“Al, you could’ve rung…”
From the bedroom, a voice:
“Ollie, who’s there?”
“It’s… Al. Borrowing the pump.”
I went to splash my face. The bathroom wasn’t his anymore. His shaving foam huddled in the corner, exiled. The shelves bloomed pink with potions. Earrings on the ledge. Total surrender.
Later, I helped assemble furniture. Screws, shelves, a wardrobe. Ellie directed like a sergeant:
“That—on the balcony. That—bin it. And that—out.”
Oleg tried to argue. Pointless. Then she turned to me:
“Don’t suppose you want his bike? It’s just gathering dust.”
And that was that. Freedom doesn’t fall with a scream. It dies whispering—under rustling silk and the scent of lotion. A woman arrives and claims every inch: a hook, a shelf, a windowsill, a soul.
A year passed. Oleg and I texted sometimes. His bike collected cobwebs. He replied less. I rode alone. Glum. But free.
Then She came to me. A month in, the timid question:
“Mind if I leave a moisturiser here?”
I didn’t say no. I smiled. Like an idiot. Because I was already gone.
Now it’s done. The bottle’s on the shelf. The enemy’s blueprint unchanged.
I’m lost. That’s it.
Goodbye, freedom.
