There’s a space heater in the corner of the kitchen, and I turn it on. Nothing. I kick it and it buzzes to life slowly, a wicked orange glow emanating out. It’s quite against the terms of my lease, but only having one shit heater in the bedroom ought to be against the terms of life.

Not that this is the worst place I’ve ever lived. By my standards it’s quite lovely, actually, given that I’ve never discovered wildlife living in the unused oven nor opened a hall closet to find someone passed out. There’s also a certain lack of bodily fluids I’ve found pleasant.

I pad across the kitchen to the counter where the whiskey’s still open, put down the glasses I’ve got in my hand, pour more whiskey into both. I’ve got on trousers but no shirt, the cold still biting at me through the first drink, and I take a quick nip from the bottle before I put it back on the counter.

It goes down so easy that I take another, warmth spreading through my chest. I’ve not had a morning drink in absolute ages. It’s one of those ugly things likely to make people label you a problem drinker, but how bad can it be if I’ve not done it in a year?

Besides, I’ve got reasons. She’s not here forever. She’ll likely not be here even tonight, as she’s got a life to go back to while I stay in this freezing cold rainy hole, trying to piece something new together.

I take another swallow.

“Are you making more?” Frankie asks behind me. “Jesus, it’s freezing.”

I glance over my shoulder. She’s got on the black t-shirt I was wearing yesterday and on her it comes down to her upper thigh, so I can’t tell if she’s wearing knickers or not.

Hope not. Give me another fifteen minutes and I’ll be ready again.

“Course I’m making more,” I say. “That’s what I do, isn’t it? I make you the drinks, you drink the drinks.”

She leans against the counter, blinking slowly, frowning. Even though she’s obviously hungover and a bit worse for the wear, eyes tired and bloodshot, hair a crazed halo around her head, she’s still so fucking beautiful it hurts.

Beautiful and gone soon, either back to America or — the worst thought, the one I can’t help but let slip through the dark cracks of my mind — back to him, this nothing more than some kind of pre-wedding cold feet.

“It’s nine-thirty in the morning,” she says.

“And we’ve already drunk and fucked,” I say, pouring whiskey into two glasses. “Look at it from the right angle and we’ve gotten a smashing head start on the day.”

Her eyes roam over the glass, then over me. I pretend that all my attention is focused on squeezing the last of my honey into the whiskey, that I can’t practically feel the heat her gaze trails behind it as she looks me over.

“If you’ve got something to say, you can just say it,” I tell her, tossing the empty honey bear into the rubbish bin across the room. “For example, something about drinking in the morning. Something maybe with liberal use of the word shouldn’t.”

“You are such a prick,” she murmurs, but she’s smiling.

“As you know.”

“Fine. I should go put on clothes and sober up and leave so I can go home and figure out what the hell I’m going to be now, which means I shouldn’t have that drink and I shouldn’t let you talk me into anything else, either.”

Yeah, I’ve won.

“You seem to be telling me all this rather than actually doing it,” I point out.

“You’re a very bad influence,” she says, reaching for the half-finished drink.

“I’m exactly the influence you need,” I say. “That’ll need watering down, I think.”

Just as I say that, Frankie takes a sip, then coughs.

“Told you.”

She shakes her head, then downs half of it in a few swallows, eyes watering. I match her, downing all of mine, my kitchen going properly wobbly and fuzzy, that thin sheet of alcohol between me and the ugly world.

“Fuck it,” Frankie says. “Let’s get drunk and make French toast.”

* * *

There’s eggshells in the sink, spilt milk on the counter, sugar on the floor. We’ve had to open a window after the first attempt started smoking because Frankie, after another drink, turned the stovetop on high and didn’t realize it.

Meanwhile, I scoured my stores. Found a bottle of Chardonnay shoved into the back of a cabinet, possibly from the previous tenants. There’s still whiskey left, still brandy, some rum.

But more important, there’s Frankie sitting on my lap, still wearing my shirt with no knickers on, eating half-burnt, half-raw French toast.

“C’mon,” she says, giggling, kicking her feet.

“The answer’s still bloody no,” I say, dodging the fork with my head.

“Why?”

“Because it’s fucking weird and I’m a grown man fully capable of feeding myself,” I say, grabbing her hand with mine.

Frankie pretends to pout, but bursts into giggles again instead.

“You’re no fun.”

I grab her bare ass with one hand, then smack it.

“Hey!”

“I’m plenty of fun.”

She eats the bite of French toast on the fork herself, leaning on the table with one elbow. While she’s chewing I grab the fork, eat some myself.

“You can feed me French toast if you want,” she says. “See, I’m cool with it.”

I take another bite, consider her carefully.

“Have you got a fetish?”

“For what?”

“For feeding people French toast.”

Frankie just laughs.

“Sure,” she says. “I did all this, came to England, laid the groundwork, just so I could get drunk before ten in the morning and feed you French toast.”

“I had a suspicion.”

“And now you won’t even let me do it.”

I reach behind her, grab my drink.

“I’m just playing hard-to-get,” I tell her. “I’ve known about the fetish this whole time, and my mother always said something about milking the cow for free and not allowing that, so that’s what I’m doing at the moment.”

She’s laughing again, chewing the last of the French toast. We went through half a loaf, burned a good bit of it, and when it turned out I didn’t have pancake syrup in the house we decided to just use white sugar.

It’s not very good French toast, but I’d eat cardboard if Frankie were sitting on my lap like this, and when she turns her head toward the table to grab her drink I nuzzle my face into her neck. She yelps, my stubble scraping her.

“I’ve got an idea for something you can feed me,” I say, sliding my hand up her bare back, the other already between her legs.

She swallows, puts the glass down as I kiss her neck, suck the delicate skin there a little harder than I should.

“That’s a terrible way of putting it,” she says, her words already a half-moan.

I laugh, kiss the spot under her ear.

“What if I offer to eat you out on my kitchen table again? Is that a better way of putting it?”

Frankie just sighs, her body practically turning to putty under my lips.