He doesn't really drink that much. Never has liked drugs and supposes his only vice is the cigars. And women.
He finds himself in a wine bar with an appropriate name, a short walk from his apartment. It's hideous even by his standards and he's been to some seedy places and, lately, some posh ones too. This dive oozes fake money and perms. It's packed with sparkly women who remind him of the uptight blonde who swished from the office today and never bothered to say goodbye.
He really does't drink, not that much.
And yet he's sitting on a barstool, tapping a beer mat that tells him to drink Taboo and be sinful. He guesses he is, sat here waiting for a woman.
He has this arrangement. Friday at 8. He buys the drinks and waits, they make conversation and then they go back to his place and redecorate it with their clothing. They have needs. It's hot and impersonal, and she calls him James.
She turns up late. Six minutes to be precise.
"Hello James." She greets him, sliding up against the bar to take a sip of his scotch and extracts the cigar from his fingers, smoking it and puffing out a perfect ring. He's fascinated but reminds himself he has no business asking how she learned to do that.
"You smoke, huh?" He asks instead.
"None of your business." She replies and gives him the cigar back. He tries not to let lurid thoughts in, even though he'll have tasted more than her lipstick in the hour.
"That sergeant being an uptight Arctic Fox again?" She enquires.
"She's not an Arctic Fox." He insist with a hint of anger.
Her eyes narrow and he can't fathom the emotion there. They're not friends so whatever he thinks he sees, isn't real. They are impersonal objects with needs. But he's starting to think that casual sex isn't his thing anymore.
This is the fourth time he's met her. He's never met any woman more than twice, unless it was Simone but she was half baked for most of their time and he didn't have the drive to fuck her when he was rescuing her constantly.
This woman ticks the boxes. The sex is incredible, they have chemistry. But she leaves before he can tell her what else he needs. He tells himself to go with it, with this situation and don't be greedy.
"Let's skip the drinks," She says, perhaps aware of his introspective.
When they get through his door, they don't get to his freshly made bed. She's undressing him at the front door, her soft lips have him under a spell, and she's coaxing him into action. Her mouth painting a path to his flies. The hiss of the zip is barely audible over their breathing.
"Don't think about the day, this week…." Her mouth closing over him.
Her tongue is addictive, melting his doubts and drowning his resolve. It feels so good he could have wept, her hair soft in his hands. If this is all he gets, it's good enough.
Her hands grasp his hips and he's lost to the stars, and moans. "Harry, oh God."
All the movement stops and she's on her feet immediately.
"It was a mistake," He urges, "Please, you gotta understand…"
She fastens the buttons on her blouse and gets to her feet, picks up her bag in silence.
He throws himself onto his couch, his trousers on his hips feeling like a lowlife fool. He flinches as the door slams.
How did it get to this?