Sim laughs. “Okay, will do. Speak soon, babes. Buh-bye.” She hangs up before I can return her goodbye. Can’t blame her, though, she’s an incredibly busy woman, and I keep adding to her to-do list with my stupid predicaments.
I realise I don’t have Owen’s number, so I reach for my phone and bring up Daisy’s Instagram account. It’s the first time I’m looking at it and Owen’s face smiles up from a photo at the bottom of her grid. I click on the picture to enlarge it. He’s sitting in his pub, and his head is thrown back in laughter. In front of him is a birthday cake covered in black fondant with yellow and neon-pink nineties-style decorations. White iced text spells out:NOT OLD, JUST RETRO.The date is the sixteenth of March and the caption simply reads:Ily Dad.
Most of her other photos are of herself, or herself and Lando in various shiny-faced states of inebriation, but as I scroll down, I’m occasionally rewarded with a picture of Owen. Always smiling, like some patron saint of jolliness. Like fucking Father Christmas or something.
I click on“message”and send her a DM.
Hey, Daisy. Can I have your dad’s number pls?
Her reply comes almost instantly.
Ofc.
Followed by a mobile number. Then immediately after that I get another one.
Sorry about Lando, btw.
Moments later, another message pings through.
What happened in the shower?
I leave her on read and text Owen.
Hi Owen, it’s Mathias. I hope you don’t mind, Daisy gave me your number. Can’t stop thinking about earlier. Was wondering if you want to finish what we started?
I delete it—too formal, too weird—and write another.
Hi Owen, it’s Matt. Got your number from Daisy, hope that’s okay. Maybe we could go out sometime?
Urgh. No. I delete that one too.
Hi Owen, it’s Mathias, the boy who wanked in the shower for you. I have a horrific case of blue balls and I’m wondering if you’d like to come over tonight and finish in my mouth.
I laugh out loud and delete it before I have some kind of sneezing fit in which I press send.
Hi, Owen. It’s Wild Card.
Done. Sent. It’s simple. Probably too short, but I’m gonna overthink it otherwise.
It takes him over an hour to read the message and text back.
Hi, xx
I spend the rest of the day smiling like a little kid at a unicorn farm.
At half past eleven, I head upstairs and get ready for bed slash watching Owen’s window for any sign of life. I throw on jogging bottoms and an old Cardiff Half Marathon finishers T-shirt, and take up my position at the end of the mattress. But he’s already there, as though he’s been waiting for me.
The lamp light from his room illuminates his entire body. He’s still wearing the clothes he changed into after sevens—jeans, and a long-sleeved, unbranded shirt.
Owen waves, and his cheeks stretch into a smile that I can see even from across the road. I don’t wave back, though. I’ve been counting down to this moment.
Instead, I stand up, manoeuvre myself right in front of the window, and strip my T-shirt off.
I don’t know how well illuminated I am, or how good Owen’s eyesight is, but what I do know is that I want himachingfor me. Want him to want me as much as I want potatoes. Need him to think of me as more than a snack, as a meal, a piece of meat for him to wrap his mouth around.
I drag the fabric over my body slowly, teasingly, stretching out my muscles the way I had in the showers. My shirt drops to the ground. Owen is still. He’s watching me but hasn’t responded by removing his own shirt. The ghost of his earlier smile lingers around his mouth.
Good. I need to put on this show for him. I dip my hand below the waistband of my sweatpants. Owen’s lips part, and I give myself a few lazy pumps before I wiggle my trousers and boxers down to mid-thigh, revealing myself to Owen, the pub, and the street below.
