Raw

Slowly, my breathing steadies itself, panicked heart rate decreases, and my mind becomes calm as I sit on the garden wall which barricades a properly preened front garden from the busy main road. Eyes have dried leaving grey streaks of diluted mascara on my cheeks, but my mouth is yet to moisten. I remember the small off-license situated beside the station and spill the coins from my purse into my hand... £5.69 - just enough to purchase a cheap bottle of vodka if I flutter my clumped eyelashes seductively enough. I'm aware of how far simple gestures can get me with young men from recent experience. I see his beautiful, embarassed face once more on that first day he really saw me, as he mopped up my drink with a handful of napkins, trying desperately to avoid eye-contact. The way his glistening blonde hair falls in his face, his large hands as they sweep it back, those eyes as they are revealed from the veil of blonde locks. I pass the man at the counter my collection of coppers and pound coins and walk out of the shop before he has the chance to count it. I unscrew the bottle and wince as the clear, scent-less liquid makes it's way down my raw, scratching throat.