Lola leaned over the side of the tub for the mobile she had shed with her clothes. She activated its voice memos and began recording before details were lost. It was a laundry list about a man she had met at Penny’s, a popular bar on Soho: his name was Stephan, early thirties, a glass blower with a proclivity for casual sex, something he kept secret from his therapist. Lola had been sitting at the bar fifteen minutes when he approached her. Stephan was shy with an oyster smile. After half an hour of tentative flirtation, he invited her to a poetry reading at the club next door. Lola asked if he wouldn’t rather fuck her in the loo.
He entered her with her bottom on the sink and legs wrapped around his waist. He grabbed her hair and thrust his tongue deep in her mouth. She responded with equal ferocity and bit his lip. Fuck me hard, I don’t break, she whispered. When she came, she smothered her scream against his shirt. Someone banged on the door and shouted, hurry the fuck up. Stephan came quickly, pulled out and removed the condom in one practiced move. He dropped it in the toilet despite the neatly penciled sign reminding guests to dispose of trash in the bin. Lola slipped on her underpants and finger-combed her hair. She yanked the door open without checking if Stephan was zipped up; she heard him swear.
Lola didn’t linger but cut through the crowd and bolted out the main door. A cab disgorged three fashionably dressed twenty-somethings, and Lola registered the way they looked all shiny and new. She shouldered one aside, leapt in the cab, and instructed the old man behind the wheel to drive very fast. As the cab turned right at the corner, she thought she saw Stephan standing in the middle of the street, but it could easily have been someone else.
Stephan was number 31. Lola pressed the pause button and eased back into the water, careful not to get her phone wet.
Photograph by body.parts_skin.art