James had turfed the rest of his one cubed drink.
He wasn't drunk enough, too drunk though to find his bed, like if he drove now eight days later the flowers would be soaking wet at his grave. James didn't mind the acrid smoke drifting past his face, he liked that he could feel the world push gently past him, and it was that red-haired woman with the rollie with her gunshot laugh and sex-pill eyes that was blowing all the smoke after all.
He can't remember her name though. It melted through the stiff posture of his drink. It's a dilemma suited for staring at trees, or giving to a tree. Right now he needs to take a piss, lean into the shadow a little perilously, blanket the earth in his misgivings and sex-fuelled dissociation.
Feels like a lurch for James, a lick of seconds but damn when he nets himself back into the comfort of the 2 seater, bunched against the sleeping dog, well, sure enough she is gone.
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