Good Material

by Dolly Alderton

“I love you, Jen.” I can hear her considering the risks of saying this back to me, her therapist on her shoulder saying things about codependency and boundaries. “Lots of love,” she replies. I hang up.

Thirty-first birthday parties were better than the thirtieths. The thirtieths had too much symbolism. Symbolism is good for a story but bad for a party. But by thirty-one, we knew where we were. One hangover a week, merino knitwear, DIY, IPA—the early thirties.

She sighed. “I don’t like spelling it out like this, Andy, but I’m desperate to fuck you.” “But?” “But I’m on my period.” “So?!” I said. “I don’t care. I fancy everything about you.” “You fancy my period.” “I fancy your period,” I repeated. “Cover me in it, I don’t mind.” “You’re disgusting.”

My man my man my man

Bon Iver released a new single two days ago. I’ve been storing it up for my train journey back to London for maximum wallowing. I booked myself a window seat especially so I can listen to it on repeat while I stare out of the window, having flashbacks and realizations.

“I’d like to be single,” Jane replies. “I think most women would. It’s men who don’t know how to do it.”

There are so many hidden miniature break-ups within a big break-up. There are so many ahead of me that I haven’t even thought of yet.