Hungry dogs, dirty puddings
She was the kind if girl who wasn’t fussy where her shiraz came from, the kind a barge man wouldn’t touch with his pole. But he’d got to the point where he was so hungry for someone to touch him this was no longer important. He found her, not in the gutter but wavering on the edge of it, with thin legs perched on ridiculous heels that made her unsteady as a young bird. He preferred more flesh on a woman — even her laughter was the brittle kind, but better than the eternal silence of his apartment.
By Clare Kirwan.