Samuel Simons vs. football and his one friend

I, honestly very reluctantly, let this man into my home again. Two things stick out to me here: one, why did he wait in the lobby for so long to come back up here, and Two, why the hell does he want to talk to me? I’m not entirely sure I want to know the answer to either.

“Hey, uh-”

“Sam, I am so sorry.”

Right. Wasn’t expecting that one. When I don’t say anything in return he continues, getting a bit short of breath with how much he has to say.

“I mean, I only came here after acting all flirty and trying to convince you, and you didn’t seem into it, like, at all, and I should’ve taken that as a sign that it was wrong because I really wasn’t super into it either but i’m just so used to, you know, not having any issues with this so I didn’t stop, and god, i’m a fucking idiot and i’m sorry!”

After all of that, he finally breathes again and I’m given a minute to process. An apology was not what I was expecting, and it isn’t like I even know Anthony well enough to know whether or not this was a normal occurrence for him. All I know is that he used me like he used all those other people, and that feels like shit.

“Good.” I respond, sighing and running a hand through my hair. “It was shitty, and if this is a ploy to get to me again then I’m not falling for it.”

His expression pretty much drops into a guilt ridden frown.

“No! No, no, I don’t want…” He shook his head, inviting himself to sit on my sofa, far enough away that it was comfortable. “I don’t want to do that. Anymore. At all.” He stares down at his lap, clutching at his trouser legs and bouncing his knee.

“You… don’t.” I half mumble.

“I mean- I know we don’t know each other and this is completely out of the blue, but I’m just so,” He sighed deeply. “Tired of it. I want actual connections, not just…” He gestures crudely with his hands, and I honestly can’t help but laugh a bit. This stranger I met at the pub once, who only knows my first name and who only came over for sex, is telling me about how he wants to change. It almost feels a bit surreal. I think I used to fantasise about things like this, meeting a mysterious man who’d want me, who’d change my life in some incredible way and fix everything. But I'm getting ahead of myself. That’s a bit far-fetched.

For a minute, I take it all in. My shitty flat that I've not cleaned in months, the man in front of me who tries to act so composed, the fact that this whole thing is happening because of a hook-up and a split second decision to change for the better. Anthony’s messy blonde hair and dull dark blue eyes, his shirts that are just barely noticeably wrinkled and the lines etched into his forehead. And after I’ve gone through every conceivable thing that could go wrong, every way I could be hurt, every possibility that forming new connections could spontaneously kill me, I utter, with more confidence than anything I’ve said in years,

“Let's do that, then. Let's just… be friends.”

Anthony whips his head up to look at me, eyes wide and a smile sneaking onto his face. I can tell through that grin that he's a little disappointed that it wasn’t something more, but honestly? I don’t think any amount of romance could fix either of us.

“Yeah.” He nods, the smile never leaving his face. This time it reaches his eyes. “Friends.”

“So… why did you wait so long to come back up?”

“I was nervous.”