Honey(10)

“No, have you still not?”

Yrsa shakes her head.

“She probably just needs space, you know. She must be so confused, and sad. So awful, the whole thing.” Ida takes off her shoes.

“Don’t you want to take your coat off?”

“I’m cold.”

Both women sit for a moment in silence before a group chat goes off on Ida’s phone. She opens WhatsApp and mutes the conversation, she then opens Instagram to reply to a message. Yrsa watches over her shoulder as she starts scrolling, flicking past graphics about the war in Ukraine to a recipe for miso-glazed cauliflower.

“Do you think you could make that?” Ida asks.

“Sure.”

“Maybe I’ll go to Serena’s tonight then,” Ida says.

Next, they watch a video of a baby falling face-first into the snow a few too many times. Then a video of Sam Mack comes up—the internet’s favorite misogynist. He’s sitting at a table with a number of other men. When he speaks his voice is monotone with a South London clip. “It’s what I’m saying.” He claps his hands. “It’s what I’m saying. I expect absolute loyalty from my women. I ain’t having my chicks talking to other dudes. If I’m not at the club with them they’re at home. That’s how it should be.” The video cuts to red graphics: THAT’S HOW IT SHOULD BE.

Ida sighs and scrolls on.



* * *





Yrsa twists and knots her braids on top of her head, secures them with a large shower cap. The hot water makes her brace, it’s how she likes it. Feeling the pour run down her neck and off over her shoulders. First she exfoliates, rubbing salts, which sting slightly under the heat. Then the almond wash. With a leg on the edge of the bath she takes her time with the razor. Under the armpits, between the legs. She hums a nonspecific tune.

Sitting on the edge of the bath, she is meticulous with the body butter. Shea and jojoba oil whipped and stored in an old jam jar. Her body is both firm and soft. A man once told her she looked like Botticelli’s Venus—it was hard to sleep with him after that, considering how inaccurate he was.

She wraps herself in a towel and turns the light on under the mirror. She applies mascara, and a red-tinted lip and sprays Jo Malone, English Pear. Shaving aside, these things are always for her, not him. The braids, unknotted, fall heavy down her back.

She carries the speaker from the kitchen to her bedroom, playing Voodoo to get her in the mood.

A tricky outfit to gauge: she has to look casual but good. Putting on her trusty jeans, dark denim, she cycles through three tops before landing back on the first. She plumps a pillow and restrains herself from doing the rest.

D’Angelo musky in the room.

Lying across the bed she lets her head dangle over the mattress’s edge. There is a new patch of mold in the ceiling’s corner. It’s patterned like ivy.



* * *





She’d forgotten how hot he is, and funny—and men aren’t funny. They’ve almost finished the rosé and she hasn’t even started on the rice and peas.

“No, I’m not showing you that.” She pushes his hand away and gives him a side smile. She’s full-frontal flirting.

“By the end of the night I’ll have seen it.” He leans back on the sofa and she traces his muscles beneath the light green of his shirt. His skin soft under the bristle of his beard. His hair close shaven.

There’s a twinkle to him—to them—tonight.

“But what were we saying…oh yeah, Moonlight. Fuck yeah, what a movie. I rewatched that scene actually, you know the scene—”

“In the ocean.”

“Mm, in the ocean, where he’s just got him there. Holding him afloat. I’ve watched that scene so many times. Because that’s what it should be, the support, y’know. So maybe I’ll call my charity Moonlight.”

“Your charity.” She rolls her eyes at him, a tease.

“I may be making a lot of money now but I’m a nice guy, one day I’ll give some away.”

“Just don’t go dirtying the name of such a good movie.”

“No, there are other things I want to dirty first.” He looks her up and down. “So why didn’t you send me a photo back?”

“I don’t do that.”

“You a lady, are you?”

She won’t give him an answer.

“You haven’t been too ladylike with me before.”

She wants to shag him until the cows come home.

“There was something I wanted to ask you.” He shifts tone, leaning forward and pouring out the last of the bottle. “In a couple of weeks I have to go to Paris, it’s a work trip and I was thinking, why don’t I extend it over the weekend and you come along? You know, what with it being Paris and all.” He hands her glass back.

The dick pic. The roses. And now Paris. Something’s off, but was he always this hot?

“Anyway, think about it. I go a fair bit, so I know the good spots.” He takes back the glass he’s just given her, places it on the table. “And I’m not just talking about the city’s good spots.” His hand on her thigh.

His lips on her neck. He’s playing with her through the denim. His teeth pulling down her top.