I CAN’T HELP MYSELF

Standing on Gloucester Road above Pigsty Hill and a little way down from the wine bar I’d just paid six-fifty for a glass of house red. I hadn’t had enough money on me so left looking for a cash point I found on the corner they’d said it would be.
A woman stood in front of me. She wore a denim jacket and trousers. A low cut shirt showing the tops of smooth freckled breasts. She had long straight red hair, was slim, tall, and wavered in front of me like she’d been drinking.
‘Let’s have some of that,’ she said tapping the bottle I held in my hand.
I gave it to her and she necked a quarter before giving it back.
‘I’ll get another when this is finished,’ I said. ‘But quality not vinegar.’
‘Ok,’ she said and, after a slight pause, ‘Aren’t you drinking?’
‘I don’t know.’
She took the bottle, drank some more, moved closer to me, her breath sweet and light against my dead face. I ducked down behind a wall so the man putting out the rubbish from the wine bar couldn’t see me.
‘Why’re you hiding?’ she said. ‘You embarrassed?’
I took her hand and we walked to an off license where the man serving sold us gin after saying, ‘You need something stronger than wine.’
‘I like this,’ I said as we sat on a wall passing the bottle of Gordon’s back and forth and watching the traffic go by.
‘Do you mean the gin or being here with me?’
‘Both,’ I said. ‘I can’t help myself.’