WHY IS THIS IN THE FILE?
Nobody took responsibility quickly enough.
I am fifty-eight, divorced, and old enough to distinguish a dinner invitation from an opportunity to embarrass myself. I accepted both.
Here is the confession: I slept with Martin and Bea after their dinner party. Both hosts. One evening. No misunderstanding about the seating plan.
They are married to each other and occasionally invite a third person into the arrangement. This had been explained to me over coffee the previous week, when I said, with extraordinary composure, that I would think about it. Then I walked into a glass door marked PULL.
The dinner itself was respectable. There were six guests, a complicated fish, and a man who described his wine as challenging. I wanted to tell him that I had brought a more challenging contribution, but Bea was passing the potatoes.
When the other guests left, Martin asked whether I wanted to stay. I said yes. Then I asked whether the fish had been expensive. Apparently I cannot enter uncharted personal territory without establishing the price per head.
I will spare you the bedroom report. It was a happy evening involving three adults and the temporary suspension of my habit of narrating everything like a property viewing. At no point did I mention the generous natural light.
The surprise came at breakfast. I had imagined a silence of enormous significance. Instead, Bea wanted to know whether I took my eggs runny, and Martin was trying to remember which bin collected the coffee grounds.
I had spent years wondering whether I was capable of something scandalous. It turned out I was capable of something scandalous followed by a perfectly ordinary discussion of food waste.
They sent me home with leftovers in an excellent rectangular container. Proper seal. Four clips. The sort you buy after deciding your life deserves better.
By Monday, I had drafted three messages. One was grateful, one was breezy, and one used the phrase unexpected tenderness, which I deleted before it could damage all of us.
Bea messaged first. Had I enjoyed myself? Would I like to see them again? And could I bring the container?
I said yes to all three. Then I put the container through the dishwasher, where its lid warped.
I can face the consequences of my appetites. I can look a married couple in the eye and say I would very much like another evening.
What I cannot do is arrive on their doorstep and admit that I destroyed the good Tupperware.
I have bought a replacement. It cost twenty-eight pounds. For that money, I expect discretion.
Fiction from Slutty Confessions. Vera Clove is a Broken Zine persona.
