'D'you mind if I take a shower before I leave? Cause I'm pretty sure I smell so much like sex that they'd kick me off the bus.'

Joe mumbles summat from the bed. Her eyes are shut, body melted into the mattress. Really, the whole room smells so heavily of sex, I wouldn't be surprised if folk can smell it from the corridor. 'You can take a bath if you want.'

'What am I supposed to do in there?'

'Relax.'

Relax?

Joe pushes herself onto her elbows to gawk at me. 'Have you never had a bath?' she asks and when I shake my head, says, 'What do you mean, you've never had a bath?' She stretches the word more than her southern accent already draws it out.

'I've never owned one, have I? Not one that holds water, anyway.'

'Okay, you're having a bath right now.'

'What am I supposed to do in there?' I ask again, but Joe has already climbed out of bed and stumbled from the room.

'You can read a book,' she calls from the toilet. Soon, the water runs.

I stay where I am, standing in the middle of the bedroom in my boxer briefs as I squint at The Hermit on the ceiling. I'm not sure having a bath in her apartment is exactly casual... but maybe it's a friendship thing. I'd run a bath for Caleb if either of us had bathtubs (that hold water).

'What if I drop it in there?' I ask when she returns.

'That's how books get character. I don't own a single one that hasn't been dropped in at least one body of water.'

I imagine her lounging by a pool in a Bali resort, her dark skin gladly soaking up the sun. A wide-brim hat provides the shade she needs to read a paperback bent in half. I don't know how the book would end up in the pool in this vision, without it being summat right out of a cheesy porn set-up—"Oh no, I'm so clumsy that I accidentally threw my book six yards away, please would you fetch it for me?"

Then, I decidedly don't imagine it.

Joe grabs my forearm in much the same relaxed manner I imagine her holding her paperbacks. Or other things. And I'm grateful I'm not sixteen anymore and my body isn't quite that enthusiastic or I'd never make it to the bloody bath—to say nowt about home.

No. I mentally spray myself with water. Stop it. One time, I said, and yeah alright, it's already been a few times. But it's enough.

It has to be enough.

Joe's bookshelf is a spectrum of pinks and purples attached to her TV bench. I scan the spines: The Ethical Slut, Sex, Needs And Queer Culture, Sexual Intimacy for Women. I stifle a grin. 'D'you only have sex books?'

'No,' she deadpans. 'I also have Pride and Prejudice.'

She pulls it out. It's curled and rippled, clearly having fallen into a bath more than once. Or a pool. In the porn scenario, a lifeguard dressed in an amorously red and criminally tight bathing suit dives in to collect it from the deep end and valiantly returns it to her.

Joe manoeuvres the novel back into its slot, laughing in that odd hissing way she does when she makes a stupid joke and is aware that it's a stupid joke but finds it dead hilarious.

I want to kiss her.

And not as a precursor to sex, not as a pool-side porn scenario kind of way. I just want to kiss her because she's sweet and funny and my chest flutters every time she smiles and I love that she reads books about sex and I'm sure she reads them out in public and couldn't care less what anyone else might think of her and–

'You okay?'

I snap my spine straight, blinking myself into reality. 'Mint.'

Joe has an impressive collection of bath bombs from where she lets me pick one, and though I've never wished I could add glitter to my washing routine, it's well exciting watching it fizzle into the water, turning it all pink and shimmery. This is how they bathe in Barbie movies, innit. She shows me her haircare products and facemasks and brings in candles too, along with red wine.

'For the hangover,' she says.

Every uni student's motto: Can't be hangover if you're still drunk. Then you get a bit older and realise that you, in fact, can be both.

Her bamboo bathtub tray has a slot designed for a wine glass that keeps it from knocking over. Never realised she were this posh.

Sure, I knew she lived in Ancoats, but I didn't reckon she lived in a freshly renovated flat with underfloor heating, triple-glazed windows, and a bathtub that's separate from the shower. But she ain't ever had an attitude like she thinks she's better than anyone else so maybe instead of being insecure, I should just take the opportunity to be pampered.

Once the bath is full, Joe leaves the toilet, shutting the door behind her, and I hesitate for a moment before climbing in.

It's still a bit weird, innit, me taking a bath alone in her flat? But she wouldn't've insisted on it if she thought I were overstaying my welcome. Unless I were supposed to decline the offer. But Joe don't talk like that, in the Regina George "I love your skirt! Where did you get it?" sort of way.

Between the warm water and the malbec, it don't take long for my anxieties to soothe. I'm well into the fifth chapter of The Ethical Slut, Ancestors and Antecedents, when a knock pries my attention to the door.

Joe peeks inside. With the door open, the low rumble of the washing machine tiptoes in. She must be washing the sheets. Or maybe all the clothes from her floor.

'Can I join you?'

As a friend?

I hum in invitation.

I try not to watch as she strips off her robe and slips into the pink water at the other end of the tub so we face each other. 'I revoke whatever I said before,' Joe says, balancing her own glass of red. 'I'm definitely hungover. I think I'm getting old.'

I exhale a laugh because the thought of calling someone who's twenty-six "old" is wild.

'This is well interesting,' I say, lifting The Ethical Slut. 'I mean, it's not for me, polyamory—I'm probably the most monogamous person to walk the Earth. But I'm learning a lot.'

Joe beams like I've just announced that I floss five times a day. 'It's a good book. Lots of important stuff about consent and communication you can use in monogamous relationships too, or asexual ones.'

I nod, though shut it and place it on the tray. Sipping wine, we watch each other. The ray of her attention warms me up more than the bath does.

Joe toys with her necklace, revolving the white topaz on its gold chain. 'Can I ask you something?' As though stuck on a delay, her eyes flick up from the water a few seconds later and non-verbally ask the question a second time. Her fingers never still. 'Why did you make that whole "no casual" boundary?'

Why does she want to know that? Can she already tell I'm awful at it? It's not enough, what I can give her, not even casually.

'It just... makes me feel bad.'

To my utter horror, my throat cinches. There's a tremor between my lungs that can't promise owt good. I blink before tears can build up and take a long drink of wine to buy myself more time to get the aching under control.

'For example, once I had sex this bloke at uni and it were great and I honestly kind of fancied him—as much as you can fancy a person you met a few hours ago, which for me is... a lot. We finish and he goes "you're Colombian right?" I confirm. He takes out his phone, opens the notes app, finds a list of countries and ticks off Colombia. In a way, that's actually kinda impressive. But also... don't feel great.

'Somehow I manage to pick the worst people to have sex with. I always end up falling for them too. So I thought that I could weed out those people by making sure I go on a few dates first to ensure they're interested in me beyond sex. But turns out, there ain't much to be interested in beyond sex, so... didn't work out.'

I'm glad to never have believed in God—if someone had designed me, they'd have to be a cruel creator to make me so desperate to love and then make me so bad at it. It's a crumb more comforting to know I'm just a failure of evolution, some kind of genetic glitch.

Then again, Pachamama is known to be cruel when prompted. So maybe it is a punishment. My existence is supposed to be devoted to serving her, I'm meant to protect the jungle. Closest I've ever got a jungle is the Palm House in Kew Gardens. Maybe that's why I can't love properly, I'm supposed to be humble and give back to the Earth and then she would give me a reward.

Or maybe that thought alone proves how westernised I am, Christian ideology bleeding in to fill the gaps of how little I know of my own culture.

The vines tighten around my chest. 'I just wanna love someone. I know I'm not good at it but I'd get better.'

I slide my wine glass into the slot on the tray and bury my hands between my thighs so Joe can't see them shaking. Her gaze pokes at me but now it's more like a ray of sun through a magnifying glass.

Am I a bad friend? Am I selfish, that they're not enough? It's 2017, aren't romantic relationships blasé? Aren't we all supposed to learn to be alone? Have I just been brainwashed by heteronormative romcoms into thinking romance is the only way to be fulfilled? Am I possessive because I want someone just for me?

Maybe if I stopped being so needy, love would appear. Maybe if I weren't so greedy and focused on trying harder–

'What makes you think you aren't good at it?'

'If I was, it wouldn't be so hard.'

All my friends have practically stumbled into relationships. You're not supposed to have to try so hard.

I have to try harder. I have to make up for my deficiencies.

'That's alright, though.' I smile, cramming just enough mortar into the fractures to appear perfectly intact, like a knife isn't splitting me in half right at this second.

'Nikki...' Joe's hand finally leaves her necklace. She balances her wine glass on the tray and reaches under it, somewhat awkwardly, to caress my leg. 'It won't be hard with the right person.'

The right person who isn't her. Summat so stupid would never cross her mind.

Joe stands up with a surge of bath water. Spuds of foam drape her curves but she don't wipe them off nor grab a towel before she exits the room. 'Maybe I can't convince you you're wrong but I can make you feel better for a little bit,' she calls from elsewhere.

She returns with a grin and a fab egg, different parts made with different coloured glass, because of course even her bong has to look like a fucking art piece. She holds it out to me with a BIC lighter.

Bad idea.

I take it. Maybe it'll dull out some of my desperation to be loved by her. It's only after my first inhale that I ask, 'What is it?'

'Bubba Kush.'

Fuck. If this is quality indica, I'll be asleep within the next fifteen minutes and then eat my way through a whole Tesco Express. 'You even got the pricy bud, huh?' I tease, taking another hit before handing the bong back. 

'Don't be mean,' Joe mumbles against the mouthpiece but her lips tug upward. 'My parents help with rent and medical stuff but we're not Kardashians. I do have student loans like the rest of you. I'm probably just more irresponsible with it.'

Laughter strums in her voice but I think she's chiding me. Which, you know, fair enough. I'm sure her life ain't all private jets and caviar. Just by my standards, anyone wealthier than Jess from Bend it like Beckham might as well be a Kardashian, but that's hardly fair, is it? Still, her world is alien to me.

And it's not just because she's got parents who care about her wellbeing either. In the world I come from, parents can't always help as much as they would like to. I mean, Caleb's mums had to crowdfund to get him a wheelchair and it took nine years of saving up before they could afford a prosthesis. They even found their sperm donors on Gumtree.

'I'm sorry.'

'It's okay.' Still naked, she leans against the wide basin cabinet and inspects me as the smoke settles in her lungs. 'You're a sativa smoker, aren't you?'

I find the plug and stand up in the bath; the water's gone cold by now. 'I like to get shit done actually. Work hard, play hard, they say. Or—now hear me out—you can work and play at the same time and half-ass both.'

Caleb and I smoked a few times in school but since Shayna and Desmond were happy to supply it, it never had that rule-break appeal that entices most teenagers to it. It were the summer after graduation when we got proper hooked. Everyone says your first year at uni don't mean owt so after two years of slaving over A-levels in a school as shit as Isaac Evans Community Academy, we reckoned we deserved a break.

It became a daily habit for a few months during my second semester until I realised, even if I smoked sativa, I would never manage my accelerated degree being high twenty-four-seven. At that point, I still wanted to go directly into a postgraduate and become fucking Steve Jobs or summat.

I rinse the soap off, craving summat to exfoliate my bath-softened skin with but using her loofah (a natural one, I notice, made from the actual plant) is a level of casual intimacy that isn't on the horizon. So I try to rub it off with the towel she hands me but it's much too fluffy to be remotely successful. My crusty sandpaper towels have some benefits, clearly.

Joe hands me the bong again. 'Surely, the whole point of being high is to not get shit done. Take Ritalin if you're trying to get shit done.'

'I take Ritalin and I'll spend seven hours coding an online shop for plants... On paper.'

She licks her lips into a smile. 'Speaking from experience?'

'No comment.'

I thumb the smooth glass of the bong. The base and the mouthpiece are deep green, while the internal components are orange. The neck is a dusty rose, decorated with air bubbles. A question forms and I move it around my mouth; to ask or not to ask.

I do, as neutrally as I can: 'Do you smoke a lot with your meds?'

'Oh, I don't really take those, I think ganja works better. I know what you'll say, I'm not supposed–'

'I weren't gonna say owt.' I hand her the bong. 'I'm not a doctor. I trust you know yourself best.'

Joe's calf eyes widen in what can only be genuine surprise. The shock dissolves in another bout of entirely misplaced affection. There's no reason for her to look at me like that.

'Anyway–' Joe pushes off the cabinet and passes me the bong so she can pull on her robe though there are still spuds of foam under her breasts '–let's get out of the loo before this hits and we end up on the stone floor for the next few hours.'

For the next few hours. I hadn't even thought of that. I can't go home now: I'll fall asleep on the bus. Reiteration: My tolerance is shit. What if Cece phones me?

Trolley Problem: Oh no! You're approaching a track where you can spend the day with one of the most attractive people on earth who you may or may not fancy OR you can pull a lever to switch tracks and stare at your phone in case you get a call from your schizophrenic brother who may or may not be in the middle of a suicidal episode.

Why does she even want me here? I expected to get kicked out the second she woke up.

But we're friends. It's not weird that she'd want to hang out with me as a friend. And as Caleb regularly reminds me, I'm allowed to have fun. If owt happens with Cece, Bobbi is there. She's their caretaker now, not me; I couldn't do it right.

'I just gotta piss.'

She jolts with excitement. 'Can I hold your dick?' Beaming, she slides the bong onto the porcelain counter of the basin, pushing the hand soap bottle into a seashell dish that seems to have collected all the jewellery she owns.

'Um... why?'

'I've always wanted to know what it feels like.'

I hang my towel onto one of the vacant hooks. This is definitely the weirdest one-night stand I've ever had. 'Okay, I guess.'

Notes

The full Regina George quote:

https://youtu.be/kfLSjobM9bg