Solo & Sticky

Dirty dishes stacked like Pisa.

Crusty bits had hardened, fused to crockery and cutlery like culinary fossils left behind by an old civilization unfamiliar with soap and water.
Pizza boxes sprawled across the countertops of her galley kitchen, barely wider than a corridor, but perfect for someone who could twirl in one spot and reach the fridge, stove, and dish rack in a single spin. The whiff of day-old pizza clung to the air like a needy lover.

Jenny lifted lids, hoping to find something to eat but all that remained were rock hard crusts and crinkled serviettes stained with tomato sauce and olive oil. And one suspiciously sticky slice of pineapple clung to a lid like a forgotten earring: useless, sweet, and out of place.

Her optimism waned, but not her appetite. So she reached inside, right to the back of the fridge where the unwanted leftovers lived and blindly pulled out last Thursday dumplings now resembling tired, wrinkly old men as they were clinging for dear life to the cardboard container. She scoffed them down in 2 bites, smacking her lips. She could swear she tasted cardboard!

Yikes.

Luckily, there was no one around to judge her, what a happy thought!

It was nearly midday, and she was still in her pyjamas, a cotton set with tiny orange kittens that now looked like Garfield mid-meltdown after devouring a huge lasagna. The day stretched out before her like a cat on a sun-warmed windowsill: lazy, unapologetic, and utterly hers.

She shoved aside the greasy cardboard relics of nights past, a makeshift fortress built from mozzarella and poor decisions, and wandered to the bread bin. One lonely brown square remained. She slathered it in peanut butter, licking the salty goo from her fingers like a woman who knew damn well she wasn’t seeing a soul today. Or tomorrow. Or maybe the next day either.

The truth was: she liked the isolation.
Voluntarily. Gleefully. Joyously.
No man. No conversation. No polite smiles... No bra!

And sex. Lots of it.
By her lonesome, thank you very much.

Just glorious, sacred solitude, and the soft, steady hum of her own thoughts. And her own pleasure.

Life finally made sense to her.

So she enjoyed every last inch of herself.
Ate.
Slept.
Ate again.
Doom-scrolled with one hand, snacked with the other. She was squishy in the best way, hips like Shakira and zero regrets. Her robe clung to her like a needy ex, and she let it...until noon, when even she got fed up with her own funk.

"Right," she declared to absolutely no one.
The apartment sighed in relief.

What followed was a whirlwind of lemon spray and righteous scrubbing. Shelves were wiped down with manic glee, soap suds clinging to her fingers like battle foam. She swiped her forehead, leaving behind a frothy crown. Catching sight of herself in the mirror, she gave a regal nod.

“Your Majesty,” she whispered, bowing low and giggling like a five-year-old high on sherbet.

The mop slid beneath the counter with a decisive swish. She lunged after it, knees betraying her, and collapsed into a surprise half-split on the polished floor. Cackling breathlessly, she peeled off her soaked T-shirt and paraded naked to the laundry room, dragging mop and bucket behind her like royal attendants.

The apartment began to shift.
From “digs in crisis” to “queenly sanctuary with mood lighting and lavender-infused serenity.”
She cracked every window.
Fresh air waltzed in. So did the city: sizzling street food from downstairs, whiffs of jasmine and braai smoke, the faint hiss of a taxi hooter, and the screech of a Harley with terrible timing.

And then… the floors.

Oh, those floors. Gleaming. Beckoning.
Begging for socks and hips and rhythm.

She obliged.

Headphones on.
Socks up.

Abba. Full blast.

The opening chords of “You can dance, you can jiiiiive…” thundered through her bones. She slid across the parquet in a glorious, bare-butted shuffle.
Hands in the air. Hair wild.
The whole apartment pulsed with disco and defiance.

Then came Gloria.
“I WILL SURVIVE!”
Oh, honey. Didn’t she just.

This was her kingdom.
Her weekend of hookie.
Her temple of crumbs, catharsis, and perfectly curated chaos.
The teacher’s mantle cast aside for two sacred days of marinating in her own magic—and yes, her own juices.

And on the Sabbath, Jenny found something sacred:
Peace.
And a joy no man (or matching set of underwear) could ever give her.