Prelude to a grope

I met him whilst pissing,
my butter bean eyes bulging,
my hair wry and wrangling with whisky.

He held my hand during the staccato shift,
I felt I couldn't say no
after all that overtime.

He unhooked me unaided
palmed each breast
discreetly

told me his ID for the snooker club
could cover us for one hour forty.
But not them

in their cleft of darkness,
their pit of old bathwater,
stuck in cups of cotton,

they would have to stay
still pissing
behind the refuse bins.

The palming grew sickly,
my skin pricked up a sheen
the whisky trickled quietly behind us down the drain.

I knew I'd not remember,
that the fingerprint marks would dry
that he would pass out quickly thinking it worthwhile.