A man could easily become depressed in such circumstances. A sea of bodies – yet none of them virgins, and all of them familiar with rough sex. Samantha spoke to me again. She asked me where my friend had got to. What friend? The one who I said I was waiting for. Well, there was no friend. It had been an excuse to make her shut her vulgar mouth, and deflect her away from me. Except that it hadn't worked. She said that her friends called her Sammie. That seemed logical. I had to move closer to her, because a man had pushed me in the back, to get to the bar. Sammie smelt of cheap perfume. I looked at her face. It wasn't as bad as some of the faces in the pub. She had turned her back on her girlfriends, and wanted to speak to me. I offered Sammie a drink. She asked the barman for a vodka and coke. Much better than a pint of lager, I thought. Sammie had unblemished skin, and thin lips. A small nose. Blue eyes. Dark hair. But that fucking tattoo. She said that she regretted having the tattoo, because she thought that later on – when she was older – it would look stupid. I laughed and agreed with her. I said that I didn't have any tattoos. Everything about Sammie was slim. Her entire body. Her thin neck. Her fingers. Thin and so feminine. When she took her glass of vodka and coke I looked at the way she gripped the glass. It was a delicate grip. I had been wrong to write her off as chaff.
Love is in the air in southeast London. But how will the evening end?
"The Londoners: Part 1" out now for kindle via amazon.