IThe message reads
wuup2 today?She’s already bought the goat cheese, beetroot, watercress, pine nuts.
w u up 2 today?She’s already shaved, plucked, waxed—including her arsehole. She’s even—and she hates herself for it—hoovered.
What she was meant to be up2 was Ethan. She was, after cooking a supper that showed her casual sophistication, meant to be up, on, and about him in every which way she liked. She exhales, squinting against the sun, and types.
Thought you were coming here today? xShe regrets the kiss as soon as it’s sent. He won’t reply straight away, that would be too courteous. She leans back against the bricks of the wall; Pembroke Street busy with cyclists and students. She scrolls Instagram. Refreshes the messages. Closes them. Opens them.
She regrets her outfit. This combination of denim and pale blue cashmere was meant for him because it makes her arse-to-waist ratio look amazing. The jeans do, however, ride up. She should change—she checks his last active time—Ethan’s hardly worth pine nuts.
As she turns to go he replies, like he can smell her course-correct.
Shit yeah, can’t make it. Thought I said?[upside-down smiley face emoji] Got the fluAn excuse, at least he’s granted her ego that grace.
Sorry to hear, get someone to bring you soup.She deliberately includes the full stop.
You could bring me soup [winky face, steaming bowl emoji]The image of herself on a train down to London with a bag of chicken soup and uncomfortable trousers makes her, momentarily, want to scream.
Working all day. Hope you feel better soon xShe doesn’t just regret the kiss but the whole message. Working all day—like she would have gone if she could.
I’ll make it up to you [orange heart emoji]He won’t.
She should end it, but—Ethan Brady is older by eight years, has a mortgage, and works in commercial law (human rights would have been better but she’ll take it). He’s also not white, has read bell hooks, and knows what to do with the clitoris. Meaning, in a world of low bars, he was coming in strong before he’d whipped her up eggs Benedict with homemade hollandaise.
They’ve been seeing each other for three months and this was the first time he was coming to hers. They’re not exclusive, but a week ago she deleted Hinge and started to wonder about calling him her boyfriend.
An older woman with a wheeled shopping basket approaches. Yrsa flattens herself as best she can against the wall. Difficult with her—how did Ethan describe them? “Type of rack that made Jay-Z cheat.” She offers the woman her best smile, which is returned with a tut. Well f*** you too.
She inhales. Exhales. Tries to remember what the Deliciously Ella app told her during her morning yoga: “This practice is centered on gratitude. I would like you to think of three things you’re grateful for.”
1. Her Rabbit, which she will now need tonight.
2. —
Yep, no, she’s in need of less wellness and more caffeine. The sun has triangulated the street in light. She crosses the road, walking toward the lecture halls. She’ll treat herself to an iced coffee. She’ll tell herself that spending too much on it is an act of self-love, wellness in practice, radical self-care. Lorde would be proud.
♦
The desks in the department office have had a reshuffle. They’ve been reshuffled because Janice (likes to think of herself as head of department but isn’t) recently went on a management course and has since decided that it’s important to have “a more harmonious layout.” Yrsa doesn’t see what’s harmonious about her now having to sit in the corner by the recycling bin.
“Coffee?”
At least she’s still sitting next to the only two women she likes in the department.
“Got one, thanks.” She lifts her takeaway cup. “You’re here early.”
“I had rowing.” Skye is still in her sports gear, her sky-blue braids tied in a ponytail. She’s writing reminders to herself on sticky notes. “There’s a meeting tomorrow at ten, by the way, to discuss changes to dissertation marking. Joy.” Skye does sound quite joyful about this. “And they want exam questions from us by the end of the month.”
Also an undergraduate supervisor, Skye is everything that Yrsa is not. Rower, student union rep, heavily involved in the African and Caribbean society. She has 32k followers on an Instagram page where she details her uni life. She shares her breakfast every day and is the sort of person that Yrsa, typically, would hate. But there’s something so adorable about her and her tiny ears.
Skye frowns. “You look nice.”
“Do I not normally look nice?” Yrsa says.
“You’ve done your eyeliner.”
“So.”
“You only do your eyeliner when—”
Yrsa raises her eyebrows and Skye smiles. “Do you want anything from the kitchen?” she asks, standing. “Hope they’ve fixed the coffee machine.”
“I’m good, thanks.” Yrsa switches on her laptop, annoyed. She should not have spent twenty minutes this morning perfecting her wings—a sharpening to her otherwise soft, open-eyed face.
She’s got emails about late essays, blocked drains, and a sit-in to save the Seeley Library. She ignores them all then looks out over the office. Unlike lots of Cambridge there is no charm to the Sociology department. The entrance feels like that of a sexual health clinic. At least it’s quiet at this time of the day. The other desk beside her, Nina’s, is empty.
Stapling some papers that don’t need stapling, Yrsa then replies to the student wanting an essay extension—saying that it’s fine so long as he doesn’t mind wasting his or his parents’ money.
Skye returns, looking dejected. “The machine was broken. Had to steal one of Oliver’s tea bags.” Both women know how annoyed Oliver will be about this.
Yrsa opens her lecture slides but can’t be bothered to edit them. She wants to check Instagram, she shouldn’t check it, she checks it.
He hasn’t sent a follow-up message.
“Ethan?” Skye is looking at her.
“Maybe.”
“When are you gonna dump him?”
“Yeah, I know.”
“I don’t know why you let him give you this rubbish.”
Yrsa isn’t sure why either. Normally it’s two strikes and they’re out. It’s just, you date and you date, and at some point you’ve got to get realistic.
“Have you seen Nina?” Yrsa is deleting emails without reading them.
Skye shakes her head. She’s started marking a stack of essays—always printed off to make sure she doesn’t miss anything. Like most people here, she’s got a touch of the neurotic. She finishes writing her comment before saying, “Haven’t seen her for a few days actually.”
“Strange.”
Polish, pretty; Nina studies genocides but is great fun.
“Nina will tell you to—”
Yrsa sees her supervisor on a path toward her.
“Tell him I’m not here.” She knocks her stapler onto the floor so she has to get down, almost under the desk, to retrieve it.
“I can see you.”
“No you can’t.”
“Literally looking at you.”
Yrsa pulls herself back up onto her swivel chair. “Hi Syed.”
“I’ll take this to mean you don’t have the draft for me.”
She holds her hands up. “You know I’ll be good for it.”
“This isn’t a drug deal.” Syed laughs. He’s wearing yet another hand-knitted jumper; Yrsa doesn’t know how he keeps up the supply.
“Thanks for the invite, by the way,” she says.
Syed looks confused, leaning slightly on her desk.
“For the book launch. I can come.”
“Oh right, yeah, thanks.” He always gets embarrassed when his book is brought up. Maybe because he’s looking at gang violence in London—“The publishers insisted on a launch”—despite having grown up in the home counties. “You’re welcome to come along too, Skye, if you’re free.” Now he’s even more embarrassed.
“That would be great, thanks,” says Skye.
“Speaking of invites, my wife wants to know when you’re coming round for dinner again?” Syed asks.
Yrsa is slightly obsessed with his wife: a barrister with Ruth Ginsburg energy.
“She still talks about the apple cake you made,” he says.
“Rum is the secret.” Yrsa is always pleased when her baking is appreciated. “I’ll get the draft to you next week.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
Copyright © 2026 by Imani Thompson. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
