He was tricky, especially when he was drunk. Those tapered fingers reaching for her wrist and those lips...fuck, those lips. Pink like the inside of a dog's ear, pink like her new favourite shirt. Anyway, the thing about him is that she was never sure what he meant by those fingers reaching for her wrist, by those lips pressed against the soft bit of her jaw, back near her ear.
He could fit wherever he was, tucked away like a foldaway bed or hotel ironing boards. His new favourite place was between her and a wall, his knees somehow up against his sternum. He would wrap an arm around those irrational knees, his elbow pressed into her shoulder blade until she turned toward him (clever ruse). So there was no doubt as to their proximity, he would crane his neck towards her, his lips hovering near her ear. She always felt warm, heat creeping up her neck, like there was a fire deep in her belly and he was stoking the flames.
He spoke in short, declarative statements when he was plastered.
"Your voice is magic."
"You smell good."
"It's hot in here."
"Come back to my flat."
It was difficult to figure out which one he meant, so she just nodded, maybe shrugged. She was used to her awkwardness, but he threw it in sharp relief, like a fire suddenly started in a fireplace, flames licking along the bricks.