He was leaning against the wall of the club and as soon as we looked at each other, I knew we were going home together. We chatted for a while and then he asked me how old I was. He said he was Plus, not to be one of those people, but he was very mature for his age, and so tall that my neck hurt from looking up at him. He had stubble and wide shoulders and carried himself like someone who knew who he was. I woke up in his bed with my phone buzzing against my back.
He moved over and put his head on my stomach and I stroked the short razored hairs on the back of his head, my nails scraping his scalp. He said it felt nice and he ran his hands up and down my leg. He told me he supports Man U and about how he was going to be a footballer, but he hurt his knee.
Then we laughed at the stereotype. I told him my dad supports Man U too. So then you start doing everything in an ironic way to protect yourself from this criticism.
He tried really hard to understand what I meant. He went to the bathroom and I looked around his room. He apologized for the state of it, even though it was actually really tidy for a student.
I laughed and took a picture for my group chat of the fire door, the Bran Flakes on the shelf, and the washing detergent that he must have hid in there away from his flatmates. He said he did because sometimes when he wants a bit of alone time away from the five people he lives with, he goes on long drives to places and sometimes he ends up in Otley.
