She marches lightly in place. To keep warm, I’m guessing. I picture those little feet, her plump, painted toes getting blue from the cold. I think of warming her legs again, pressing those toes between my knees, my hands. My cock jerks. I reach down and press hard on it, wishing it would go down. But the prick’s got a thing for this woman. Can’t say I blame the poor bastard.
“What about you? Did you work tonight?”
“Yeah. It was crap.”
“Busy?”
“Slow. People are gone. Or with family. No one’s going to the pub tonight. Just a couple of the usual punters.”
“What about you? No family?” She sounds tentative.
“My parents are back in Wales. I can’t…” Can’tstandgoing there. The silence, the still, stale smell of loss.
I reach for the bottle, relieved when my knuckles knock on body-warmed glass, and unscrew the top to slug back a mouthful before the memories come crowding in. There’s no way to fight them here in the dark.
“I’m sorry, Colin.”
I swipe my sleeve over my mouth. “What for?”
“You said something about your brother’s grave earlier and I should have let it go. Why didn’t I? I knew it was a touchy subject and went and asked about your family anyway. I do that sometimes. I’m so sorry. Why do I always have to push and push—”
“You didn’t push. What are you—”
“That’s my MO.” More shifting, her body dancing as far from mine as it can, her antsy moves playing the insides of our little tin bucket like a timpani. “You know. Here’s a tough nut, better crack it. I mean, you’re this grumpy, bitter—”
“Bitter?”
“Brooding guy—”
“Slight improvement.”
“And every time I see you, I just want to, like, ruffle you up and get into your brain or something. Maybe even get you to smile and figure out why you’re so frowny and grunty.”
“I don’t think those are words.”
“But I get it. I get that men often hold things inside—and society tells you that’s how to be, so it’s understandable—and you’re such a stoic guy with your…massive…big…”
“Big what?” It’s a shock to find that I’m grinning.
“Ah, hell,” she breathes. “Can I please have the bottle?”
“With pleasure.” I hand it over, bumping up against her gooseflesh-covered thigh. She grabs it from me and when our hands meet this time, there’s no doubt that the touch is purposeful. From her, from me. Her fingers twine around mine, tighten, and finally loosen with a slow stroke.
Perhaps we tried to hide it earlier, but this is direct. Intended. It’s affectionate, almost. But that can’t possibly be real, can it? Not after all the animosity these past months.
I hear the series of bird sips she takes and wonder when we’ll have to stop using the bottle for drinking and start using it as a receptacle for something else.
She takes another tipple. I consider telling her to slow down and then decide that I’m in no position to be policing the woman. Especially not when she hands the whisky back. I go to take more and stop.
Though my earlier plan was to get right pissed, it’s no longer what I want. Not here. Not with her. I set the whisky to the side and sit back.
“I talk too much sometimes. Sorry, Colin.”
“No need.”
“Seriously. Nana calls it the Wall o’ Words. It’s like a tidal wave when it hits. Blaaaaaaaaaaahhhh.”
“Stop apologizing,” I tell her, allowing myself the quickest touch of her foot. “I don’t mind.”
