We laughed until late. After our peppermint tea, we arranged blankets around our feet that Katie had crocheted herself, streaming our phones onto their television and taking it in turns to pick our favorite songs. We got up and danced around the room to “Power” by Little Mix, tuning out Heather’s changing the lyrics to “You’re The Man, and I’m wearing wearing a tiny leotard.” We fell down a songs-that-always-came-on-at-uni spiral—swinging our limbs around the living room to “Crazy Chick,” “Love Machine,” and The OC soundtrack. I usually hated dancing—could never quite shake off the insecurity that makes you too stiff and aware to look good. But, as it was just the three of us, it didn’t matter. I screamed along to the songs, I threw my body around like a maniac. We giggled, pretended to hump their walls, cackled, and spun until we were dizzy, giddy as children rolling down a hill—all three of us almost entirely sober. Freedom loosened my muscles, I smiled ’til my face hurt. And then I had a thought of Ben. I thought how much he’d love to see me like this—so free, so loose, so unobtainable in that moment, so not needing of him. He loved it when I was able to let go, which rarely happened in a man’s presence. He’d want me so much like this. And, the moment I had this thought, I became aware of my body. Of how I looked. Was I dancing well? Did my face look pretty? I laughed at Heather as she slut-dropped, but the laughter was forced because I was imagining what I’d look like to Ben if he saw me laughing. I used the window to check my reflection, and noticed my stomach bulging over my jeans—full of pizza and cheesecake—and turned away. I continued dancing with my stomach sucked in, so the imaginary voyeur of Ben wouldn’t be put off by my imperfect body. Within five minutes, our impromptu party died. My self-consciousness seeping into the vibrant air, poisoning even the two lesbians.

I thanked them again and said my goodbyes.

“Good luck with your hot mess friend.” Heather hugged me one more time before leaving.

When I got in the taxi, my Uber driver just wanted to listen to Classic FM in total silence. I laid my head against the window, watching the city swish by, and, again, I viewed myself as if there was a camera, live-beaming me to Ben. I tilted my chin so it was a better angle. I pictured him noticing the change in me when I walked in. Pulling me into a kiss, wanting access to my independent woman energy field.

“Just here,” I told the driver, as he turned onto my road. “This block of flats here, on the left... Yeah yeah yeah, by the streetlight.”