Part 1: The Misadventures of Eve

Slice of life piece, set in London. Discusses dating and relationships, with some overshadowing observations about class.

It was grey and raining that Sunday in London. The grey painted streets almost started to feel natural to Eve after being subject to this weather for 6 days now. She looked manically at her Iphone every 15 minutes, waiting to see if John had texted her back. last seen Tue 10.56. There was one grey tick next her message.

Hey, I think I'm leaving on Tuesday. Did you want to hook up one last time on Sunday eve? She purposely chose the words "hook up" to ambiguously suggest the possibility of some sexual encounter between the two.

"Why had he still not come online?" She thought. Surely he must have seen the message flash on his screen.

An agonizing 24 hours passed, with Eve going through all the different scenarios of what she did wrong on their last meeting, thinking maybe that was why he did not respond back.

Their last meeting before this moment consisted of her texting him after a being on a Tinder date. She was tipsy and restless for real connection. The date was handsome, tall and lean. He had impeccable taste in films (the strange films that Eve loved). And she considered going home with him after the date when he proposed they go back to his for some "tea," but decided not too. He had a warm and easy going aura about him. Eve felt confident in his presence, as they discussed Zadie Smith and Bukowski. Their shared academic privilege of studying "the arts" made conversation feel natural and fluid. Any few disagreements over whether or not Bukowski was a misogynist nihilist in his literature, or whether or not race was still an issue in Britain, were debated with poise and comfort. But Eve could feel that this comfort was an illusion, and that his kindness was probably just more politeness, rather than true compassion; bred from a history of British middle-class etiquette, and too much Guardian reading. She imagined having sex with him. In her imagination he would moan in an almost squeaky effeminate way, making strange grunts. Noises only a sheltered young man of privilege could make.

She promised she would see him again, as she ran for her train across the platform, but ended up cancelling their next date. On the train back home from the date, she texted John

Hey, what you upto? I'm out and don't fancy going home

He responded with Not much...I has court in the morning. But you are more than welcome to pop over as I wont be getting to sleep anytime soon anyway .

He was that guy that would playfully switch his "have's" with "has." The court date was concerning a custody battle to see his children, after recently separating from his wife.

Eve felt a rising surge of excitement and anxiety as she rode on the DLR from Canary Wharf and made her way onto the Victoria Line to Finsbury Park. She walked out of the station and bought some beer in an off-license, and then proceeded to walk through a loud tunnel, with a train passing overhead, skillfully avoiding the stray mad people. His apartment block stood on a steep hill, jutting out like a piece of lego. It towered over ill-maintained Victorian houses, that had now been split up from within, into numerous shabby flats.

Eve felt out of breath as she walked up the hill with the block in sight, realizing her ridiculousness at seeing him at such a late hour, and with such a concerted effort. She got to his door, and searched through the 50 numbers and anonymous names, finally punching number 38. He buzzed her in.

Eve felt wiser this visit, and walked up one flight of stairs, avoiding getting on the lift on the ground floor, as that was where the lift was broken. She entered the piss scented elevator, lit up with an intrusive office-like florescent light, and applied lipstick in the mirror. Shifting her hair this and that way. Making her face beautiful for him.