Les

There's something shockingly comfortable about a place where your shoes stick to the floor. I'll roll a cigarette and it's all of two minutes before somebody is talking to me, somebody clearly addled by the toil of a long life and the substances coursing through his bloodstream. The bustle around us slowly begins to increase as he buys me a drink and I shoot it down with the coldly amused bar staff, who've no doubt seen it all before.

I give him a false name. I'm not myself tonight.

There's something in his eyes and the sway of his hips that reminds me of hoar-frost, of a crisp, clear winter's morning where the air is so cold that there's no room in it for the taint that normal air has. But he isn't safe, he isn't nice, and he most certainly isn't right, so the feeling fades quickly and I turn my attention to other forms, other bodies, other people.

I'm glad I told them all that I was a lie. It's easier to swallow than the truth.