Better Late Than Never....

....where was I? At the pub, shaking myself dry? Possibly. Probably. Oh, and that was the weekend where I'd discovered that G+T trounced my usual red wine for taste, price and immunity to hangovers. So he'd bought a bottle in, plus the tonic, plus a single lemon in the fridge. But sod it, we were at the pub, his golden stoned place was at least a twenty yard splashy dash away so we hunkered down there to drink. Joined by another couple, we chatted, sometimes politely, sometimes veering towards politics....

'Name me a famous redhead who's NOT a tosser,' he challenged us at one point

'Thatcher,' I replied, remembering her hair being aflame, her mouth issuing terse statements.

'No fucking way!' he spluttered, 'don't get me started on that woman!'

Back to X Factor and Strictly Come Dancing then.....

Back to his flat. It was dark. He lit a fire (open, roaring). It got a little lighter and warmer around its stony hearth, above which was suspended an ancient tribal knife that he'd brought home from his own boy's adventure story. 19 years old. The Sudan. Pictures of him, in flares and a light shirt, a casual moustache and even more casual hair. We shagged on his sofa, the leather an intrusive companion to our intimacy. My legs wrapped round his waist, us cradled together, his hand supporting my neck as I gasped into the barrel of his chest....

And then? And then, I went home. Not immediately after the sex, granted. We spent the next day together, too. Again back to the pub, met some of his friends and gassed about things I'll probably never experience. I felt approving eyes on me as I went to the bar, the loo, as I scampered myself up comfortably in his lap, throwing cheeky asides into the conversation. He stroked my hair and looked slightly disquieted at this, his own tender action. And then, kissing him goodbye, I went home...