And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how it’s done. That’s how you lose a guy in less than three minutes.

There’s a main road ahead of me and as I walk towards the hum of traffic, a rubber band flicks something deep within my chest. Because I’m not some psychopath (I know this for certain because I’ve done an online quiz). I don’t fuck with people’s feelings for fun. And I liked Thomas; really, I did.

Which is precisely why I needed to pull my bunny-boiler routine now, before things went any further. Because I could tell from the way he looked at me, from how he held my hand so tight after sex, that if I didn’t do something soon he’d get attached. And he needs to find a normal girl who’ll want normal things. Someone who listens to ‘How to keep your man’ podcasts and doesn’t sabotage things the moment a guy wants more than a casual hook-up. Someone looking for a white dress, a set of his-and-hers towels, a dum-dum-da-dum-dum and a couple of offspring.

And that’s not me.

Not anymore.

And not just because I tried love once and it didn’t do what it said on the box, not just because I’m pretty sure the whole thing is bullshit. But because every time I open the newspaper a new continent is on fire, World War III is about to erupt, a big corporation is screwing over the vulnerable or some expert or another is talking about how sooner or later water will cost more than gold. It’s depressing. So, what? I’m supposed to ignore all that, pretend that Orwell isn’t the new Nostradamus, couple up, invest in white goods, pop out a baby and then leave it here in this shitstorm?

No thanks.

I prefer my life clean. Simple. My weekends free to write.

So this is best for both of us.

I look around as I weave between taxis, motorcycles and bicycles and cross the street. There’s an H&M sign glowing in the distance, lots of cursive, neon restaurant signage, one of those bottle-green Parisian newsstands with postcards on racks, and a homeless man sleeping beneath a pile of cloth in a doorway across from it. I get to the other side and am about to walk the short distance home when ‘Hot in Herre’ starts playing from my handbag. That’s Camilla’s ringtone – she’s my best friend. Who am I kidding? Camilla is my only friend but that’s entirely by choice; I don’t really like that many people. They’re fake and try to make me fake too and it’s tiring pretending I don’t see it.

I reach for my phone and move out of the pedestrian traffic, past the rows of postcards into the newsstand to talk.

‘Hey sexy,’ I say, pushing a finger into my free ear so I can hear her beyond the hum of traffic and chatter of pedestrians. I can still smell Thomas’s cologne on my fingertips and I have a flash of memory. His breath on my ear. Goosebumps.