Laundry Day

>>>>>>>Sent to: monajallen82@gmail.com<<<<<<<<<

>>>>>>>From: LuciaLosiento@gmail.com<<<<<<<<<<

By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. Nature endorses revenge, Mona. And your husband needs to die.

Stay with me, OK?

Last month, there I am sitting on the 59, wedged in like a sweaty little sardine when I catch this man’s eye. He’s Portuguese or Greek- something tanned and salty. Cute. I smile and then he smacks me in the face with this tongue sucking smile. I’m not talking ‘hello bus woman’ smile, not a ‘casual acknowledgement of our blasted humanity’ smile. It’s- well, do you know the old 7-up advert? Guy dribbling on his t-shirt, peels it off- revealing the most lickable abs known to man? He looks to the googly-eyed receptionist, giving her this balls deep ‘would you?’ smirk. Well, that was the exact smile Mr bus man gives me. 

I had my backpack and two laundry bags with me (My fire breathing landlord hasn’t fixed my washing machine in four months. Where are we? North Korea? So, every 2 weeks, I take the 59 with my entire wardrobe to Kennington Launderette. The woman there gives me a good price).

Still looking at me, he rings the bell. I panic, naturally. But I have also been waiting my whole life for this sort of clothes ripping bonanza, so I am all in. I keep my eyes available for him while (seductively) reaching for my washbags. I scoop one onto my shoulder, all breezy and he stands up. We’re seconds away from the ab licking showdown. I stretch out but I can’t feel the second strap.

He’s at the door now, motioning me to follow, (I scream very loudly in my head) and look down- for a fraction of a second- for the laundry bag. You will not believe this, Mona but the bag isn’t bloody well there. I look behind me. I look around me and then I hear the doors swoosh open. He looks back, eyes glinting.. what about my clothes? Can I abandon all my clothes for a delicious bus man? 

He steps slowly off the bus and right in the corner of my eye, a weedy punk kid is SITTING ON MY LAUNDRY BAG! I run over, jerk it out from under his ass but his father, some ponce in beige, starts roaring at me. What do I think I’m doing? Who do I think I am? Everyone is staring now because he’s saying I assaulted his mental kid. I’m getting redder and redder and just want to get my damn laundry bag (which in a cruel twist, turns out to be full of bed linen) when: swash. Doors shut. My dream is left at the bus stop, shaking his perfect head at me.

Yes, Mona, I did think about getting off at the next stop and running back to him. Of course, I did. But think about it, how could I? With all my bags and panic and desperation, I’d look gross. It would have changed the whole vibe of our affair.

I have too much time on my hands- what with being unemployed and all- SO, I start catching the 59 a bit more often. OK, a lot more often. I live on the bus for a whole month. But my dedication pays off. 

His name is: David Norman Allen

Age: 43

Address: 78b Mount Ephraim Rd, Streatham SW12 7EH

He catches the 59 at 7:47am from Streatham Hill Monday through Friday and back from Brixton station at 6:05pm. He works for Film First. I won't bore you with the details. (Sells films to festivals and distributors.. "a trailer is really a snappy short about the film. The best ones are works of art in its own right" -LinkedIn.) He wears the same thing pretty much every day: knee length grey woollen coat, nondescript jeans and a red scarf. Scarf is more fashion accessory than necessity but I’m giving him a vanity pass because perhaps his office is draughty. Well, I was. 

Until tonight. 

“Remember me?” I say, all buttery and French, sliding into the seat beside him. (I’d been travelling incognito all month but today I was looking 🔥)

“Eh, no” -and he dives into his phone as if I am one of those nasty charity muggers. He could have said ‘Do you work in Soho? Do you live near me?’ but he doesn’t give a shit about even being civil to me. I got pissed, Mona. Really pissed. 

“I’m a friend of your wife’s” 

He’s all BBC wanker then:

“Oh. I see. Busy day. Sorry. Sorry. How do you know Mona?”

“She’s my wing-woman. When we go out” 

He laughs at that. Finds me cute. Flashes the smile but keeps it PG this time.

“And I’m hers” I say

“Ha! Maybe she misses being single..” he says while being absolutely certain she’d (you’d) never think life could be worth living without him. 

“Oh, you know, if you’re married to a cheater, it’s good to have back-ups in place” I say, brightly 

His face is so ugly right then, I don’t know how I could ever have liked it.

“I don’t know who you are but stay the hell away from my wife” 

He pushes past me (roughly), rings the bell nonstop (entitled much?) until the bus driver pulls over and lets him off. 

Anyway, here is some stuff I found on his phone. Him with Melanie (from the office), Joanna (from boxing class), a girl called Nora and a few randomers. Some of the video footage is poor quality but perhaps that’s for the best. I’ll post his phone but wanted you to have all the amo ready so you could 💣 the bastard when he arrives home. 

Lucia x

P.S. Just to be fair, I want to come clean about my part in this whole headache. While conducting my research, I did discover he was married. (His Facebook privacy setting really need a rethink) And I should have abandoned my line of pursuit at that point but, well, I’d already followed him to work a bunch of times. Had already googled his job and-you know how it is, Mona- you get all excited about what could happen and where it could go and before you know it, you’ve a whole new life built up in your head. Your hair is different, your clothes are different- your life has undergone the romcom make-over. Anyway, I am sorry. And I promise not to ever consider another person’s spouse romantically in the future. Lo siento means ‘I’m sorry’ in Spanish. (It isn’t my actual name LOL.) But anyway, what’s important to remember here is.. don’t you be sorry 🔥