She comes around with wet hair and demands I strip naked and wash my cock. When I do, she sinks her hands into the bath where I lay submerged and grabs hold of me. Her fingers peel back tightened flesh, and as her eyes pick away at my dirty truth, the rivers of the sun that watch me through the window make me melt in the heat of their gaze. Removing her jumper, she sits on the balcony rolling cigarettes while listening to music. Unsure of where we are, the leaves on the trees show that it’s autumn, but nature is not to be trusted. Drying myself off, I recognise a song by Fripp and Eno. Droplets of rain hitting my tired face, there’s nothing I want more than a bottle of beer, but I promised this would be the end. It’s so difficult, though. A decade of drinking is a difficult thing to shake, and every night I’m dry is a night spent wishing I was wet. Alcohol is my lifeblood, and each day my lips go without tasting its sweetness is another day spent clenching my fists. It never used to be like this, but life takes its toll. Some pretend, and although imagination is my sex, there are certain things you just can’t fake. Acts of devilry are difficult to refuse, and as the sun goes down, these lips of mine are far too cracked to taste such perfect flesh without a drop of something neat. Unlatching her bra and tossing it into next door’s garden, she bleaches the skin of her upper lip and pretends she’s never been kissed. The truth is far more mundane, but as I sway from side to side and slip into unconsciousness, who am I to preach about what’s right and wrong? Pressing her breasts against my face, I return to the womb tickled by nipples and vivid sensations of being loved.