He still tasted of beer in the cobbled Latin Quarter alley. Then against the red brick wall of Switalskis he tasted of pies. Outside the door to the flats downstairs, while she was still deciding, he tasted of dope.
Now he tastes of her toothpaste.
Her teeth are singing. Each time he stops and looks at her she can’t stop smiling. His skin is hard. His chest hairless. Lyn liked the taste of dope.
‘Roll another.’
He props himself up. ‘Y’sure?’
‘Yeh.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘None of your business.’ But she doesn’t close the bathroom door so she can look at herself without turning on the harsh light and can peek back at him sitting shirtless on her bed, his blonde mop of hair, the muscles all down his arms and into his clean fingers rolling the joint. He looks up, smiles. Lyn is happy he is here.
Pete holds up a head of grass, grins. ‘You’ve cleaned me out. My last bud.’ He folds the little plastic bag into the watchpocket of his jeans.
Lyn slips her hand down the back of her dress to scratch a tickle.
He holds the spliff out to her, looking worried. ‘No, leave it on. For a bit.’
‘I wasn’t taking it off.’ Her teeth singing. ‘Yet.’