You're not rid of me
No, you're not rid me
I'll make you lick my injuries
--P.J. Harvey, Rid of Me
He drank alone at the bar.
The crowd bumped him. Oozed and churned. An elbow pushed into ear, then apologized.
Words scrolled across the television screen above the bottles of alcohol. It was an on-going transcript for a baseball game. Reading the commentary was even more ludicrous than listening to it.
He trailed his fingers on the sweat of his dwindling drink.
His mind wandered to the memory of her ankle. And the smoothness of her inner thigh. And even deeper where her breath trembled with a mix of fire and overload.
An elbow pushed into his ear.
And didn’t apologize.