Because it's Christmas

At the bar, his eyes are searchlights. In these situations, I invoke the affirmations. It’s OK to be assertive, girl.

Jesus, you’re beautiful, a voice from the searchlights whispers.

Size him up, quickly. Men do this, when they’re rivalling their friends. I risk a quick scan. He’s built like a stone slab from the remains of an historic fortress. I must look like a dark chocolate mint left on his hotel room pillow.

I decide that a quick smile won’t hurt. Some smiles are potential full stops to conversations. His eyes try to prise open the top button of my shirt.

‘I’ve had a terrible week,’ he says. ‘It’s so nice to see something lovely at the end of it.’

I smile into my drink until my cheeks hurt. My legs force me to stand. In my panic, my drink spills.

He’s too drunk to notice, or he’s just too drunk. Or he doesn’t notice. Or he’s not drunk.

‘It’s Christmas next week,’ he says. ‘Can I at least give you a hug?’

I hear myself laughing for no reason and saying, Not really.

I’m in his surprisingly strong arms before I know what’s happening. He smells of whiskey and lust on a loop. I suck in my chest.

When it’s over, he leans back to look at me. He recognises that he doesn’t stand a chance. His palm somehow roughly grips the side of my face, and he’s staring at my mouth.

And I let him. Because it’s Christmas.