Free Untouchable by Ava Marsh

before slipping inside me and fucking all the bad thoughts out of my head.
    But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t wake. How come men can always bloody sleep?
    Christ, I need a cigarette.
    I stare up at the ceiling, a tide of anxiety threatening to overwhelm me. I have to get up. I slide my legs over the side of the bed, but even the effort of sitting ignites my hangover, leaving me dizzy and nauseous.
    Too much of everything, I acknowledge, flashing back to the night before. To the bar. To the club. The coke, the pot. The fumbled hasty sex when we finally tumbled into bed.
    Too fucking much of everything. And always the price to pay in the morning.
    Tears well again. I blink them away. No point, Grace, I tell myself as I rise unsteadily to my feet. No fucking point at all.
    I don’t turn on the light in the bathroom, reluctant now to wake him. Unable yet to bear the strain of communication. Groping for the loo, I lower the seat and pee – there’s not much, probably beer-brown with dehydration. I daren’t flush afterwards. I pull on the dressing gown hanging on the back of the door and turn the tap on low. Splash water on my face, thankful it’s too dark to catch sight of myself in the mirror.
    A heave in my stomach. I lean on the sink, breathing hard.
    Oh, please, don’t let me be sick.
    Gradually the nausea ebbs away. I locate the kitchen and close the door behind me. Switch on the light. The room is tiny – compact, an estate agent would say. A line of units, a fridge and a stove.
    My spirits lift a little when I spot the expensive coffee maker. I open a few cupboards, find half a packet of ground arabica. Fill the machine and stand there, watching it dribble into the flask, its busy gurgling somehow a small shred of comfort. Pour myself a cup, then reconsider.
    Give him a chance, Grace.
    I fill a second mug and take it into the bedroom, placing it on his bedside table. The man whose name I still can’t remember blinks, opens his eyes. His complexion is blotchy, his stubble more pronounced. But he’s not bad, even in the harsh daylight now percolating into the room.
    ‘I made you some coffee.’
    He mumbles thanks, pulls himself up into a semi-reclining position. Looks at me briefly before shutting his eyes again. ‘You OK?’
    ‘Fine,’ I lie. ‘Thank you.’
    I stand there for a few seconds. Graphic designer, I remember now. Recently broken up from a long-term relationship. My body recalls his mouth on my nipple, hot and eager. The feel of him inside me, the little gasp he made when he came.
    ‘You’re welcome to use the shower,’ he says, not opening his eyes.
    My cue to leave.
    I stare at him briefly, re-evaluating the night before. Definitely a rebound fuck.
    I dress, not bothering with the shower. Find my bag in the living room, by the side of the sofa. Hunt through it, fingers groping into every corner of the lining. Please God. I turn up three ibuprofen. Go back into the kitchen and pour myself another inch of coffee and swallow them one by one.
    It’s then I see the calendar on the wall. And the date. The fourteenth of February.
    Happy fucking Valentine, Grace.
    Swilling my mug under the tap, I dry it with a tea towel and replace it on the shelf. Like I was never here at all. Then pull on my coat and let myself out, closing the door to the flat softly behind me.
    I don’t bother with goodbye.

12
    Saturday, 14 February
    ‘God, I’ve missed you.’
    Roy traces a finger from the hollow of my breastbone down to my belly button, where it pauses, waiting for my response.
    ‘It’s been a while.’ I keep my voice non-committal.
    He smiles, but his eyes betray his disappointment. Poor old Roy. Always hoping for more. My gaze flicks to the card on my chest of drawers. A cutesy teddy bear holding a red heart-shaped balloon with ‘Be My Valentine’ printed across the front.
    Jesus. A shift of guilt inside me. I hate feeling I’m leading someone on, even when I’m not. And I have made it clear, as firmly