"Oh my god, hi, Mr Blakesley!"
Chris shouldn't have had that last drink. Maybe it was the painkillers? Or the anti-depressants? He wasn't supposed to mix them with alcohol, and, well, he had done that a fair bit. It was unlikely that anyone at this rowdy bar would have spiked him for nefarious activities. Not with his greying hair and his rumpled clothes that he hadn't changed from a full day's lecturing. He shouldn't be here, but he'd got to that desperate despondent stage in his tiny little studio flat, and well, he might be pushing forty but he still remembered the fun and freedom of a night out drinking.
So now he was here, head whirling, deafened by music that he didn't recognise, staring like a rabbit in the headlights at the second-year student who had squealed his name.
"Molly."
"Hi!" she said again, sidling closer. She was wearing a shimmering golden dress that made his eyes hurt. "Are you allowed in here?"
That pissed him off, even though morally she was right. "They don't check IDs for 'too old', you know." His voice came out a little unclear. Shit. He had to do better. Pretend better. He should be good enough at that by now, after all.
She laughed. "Okay." She stepped even closer and put her hand on his arm. His entire body prickled at the sensation. How long had it been since someone had touched him? Several weeks, at least. She went on tip-toe and shouted in his ear, "Well, what are you here for?"
The hot rush of her breath on his ear made him shiver. Had she... Was that the innuendo that it had sounded like? He gazed back at her. Just for a moment. Just to indulge. Just to look at the way that her gaudy dress was too short, and too low-cut, pushing her breasts upwards. They didn't need any help, those plump, freckled breasts. He'd already had to look away from them once or twice, if she was on the front few rows in his class.
(Or looked, if she was further back and his direction of gaze might not be as noticeable. Just once or twice.)
Images filled his head, hazy and remote. His dick stirred, but only a little. He could barely even remember what sex felt like. The pills made even masturbation infrequent and unsatisfying.
How long had he been looking at her breasts for? Time was buzzing irregularly between the beats of the terrible music. She was still looking up at him. Her lipstick was a ridiculous shade of ... blue? Colours looked wrong in here.
Everything was wrong, because he was wrong. He shouldn't be here. He tore himself away from her beguiling presence and headed for the smoking area outside.
Or tried to anyway, the floor felt soft and unreliable under his frantic feet.
The night air was cool on his face. It was quieter out here. Gratefully, he let the brick wall prop him up. Just as he was relaxing;
"Mr Blakesley, are you all right?"
"I'm fine," he replied, on complete autopilot, and let his head roll to the side to face the persistent Molly. She looked even prettier away from the dim lighting of the bar.
"Are you sure?" She stepped far too close to him, peering up at him with a frown. She smelt like roses. "I thought you might be being sick. Thought I'd come out to check."
"'M fine, Molly." The slur in his words was getting stronger now, but he was losing his ability to give a shit. "You should go back in. Dance, or something."
She rolled her eyes, hard. "Or something. Come on, there's a chair over here."
