Christmas drinks. Too many wines. Virtually incapacitated.
I accepted a lift from the guy who’d been trying it on, and stumbled to the door.
“Oh, would you look at that. An Audi. Flashy.”
He let me do the gears. Could have killed us both.
Cocksure from all the coke, I wriggled out of my underwear and swirled them round my index finger.
He couldn’t keep his eyes on the road. He nearly killed us both.
It was misguided, immature and, ultimately, the biggest mistake of the year.
Was this what I wanted?
The sun rose. My head hurt, my nose hurt, my kidneys hurt.
I rolled over and saw him close-up, in the cold light of day.
It was also now Christmas Eve.
I cried. And told him he had to leave immediately.
“Babe, I’m still over the limit.”
I cried harder. It was Christmas Eve.
I watched his Audi from my bedroom window. His chest began to rise and fall.
I sat in the shower and scrubbed myself for a very long time. I cried some more.
The things that had happened. They weren’t what I wanted. But he’d done them anyway.
I glanced out of the window. He’d finally driven off.
But he’d stolen my Christmas.
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