I can see the bedroom through an open door on the far side of the room – the characterless white linen of a bed, a pile of things on the floor I can’t recognise from this distance, the legs of a chair. I’m guessing there’s a big mirror in there too. Nee-koh-lah strikes me as a mirror guy. He’d probably be into handcuffs too, but I lost mine in the move from London and haven’t replaced them yet.

I hear the door click shut and look back to him. His dark eyes are on mine now. He’s wondering whether he needs to offer me a drink or if we can just do this thing. He decides on the latter. Reaches for me, his one arm around my waist, the other behind my head, and now his mouth is on mine. He tastes of vodka and his lips are tight. His tongue darts in and out like a lizard. Then he reaches under my skirt, pulls down my underwear and stockings – the air is cool on my skin – and then: slap.

His hand hits my bum.

It stings. Burns.

And as he rubs it and pulls his hand away, I think, Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Slap.

Because twenty hook-ups ago this might have been exciting, it might have felt new, my heart would have been beating hard and my breath would have been fast. But now, it feels formulaic. Like every guy on every app gets his sex tips from the same forum.

Nee-koh-lah is just another short guy who thinks he’s Christian Grey.

Twenty minutes later he’s lying in bed, smoking a cigarette, as I pull on my stockings and then my skirt. I look over at him as I reach for my jumper and pull it on: he’s on his phone. Scrolling. Pretending I’m not here even though ten short minutes ago he was pulling my hair and saying shitty things into my ear he thought I couldn’t understand. I was right, by the way, there is a big mirror beside the bed; he watched himself the whole time. And he does have a hairy back.

I’m seriously considering a side-gig on the psychic network channel at this rate.

I glance over at him and he just keeps scrolling. If I were a different girl, this might hurt my feelings. But I’m keen to get the hell out of here within the next two minutes so the fewer distractions, the better.

‘I’m going to go,’ I say.

He grunts something in response. I reach for my bag on the floor by the end of the bed and say ‘Bye’. Because, you know, politeness.

He waves but doesn’t even make a move to get up. So I head through to the beige living room, picking up my shoes and slipping them on. My jacket is lying on the sofa, and as I grab for it, my gaze lands on my wrist. Peeking out from under my sleeve is that broken half-heart Noah drew on Friday night; it’s still visible. I lick it and try to rub it off as I open the front door, close it behind me, rush through the security gate and head onto the cold street. I turn left towards the metro, putting my jacket on as I walk, then reach into my bag and pull out my phone.