I slide a look sidelong at my "companion". He swigs from a bottle clutched in a brown paper bag. I"m not sure what he"s drinking, but I"m pretty sure it came from a hardware store, not a liquor store.
A chemical smell drifts my way, not masking the stench of unwashed body and clothes. And something else: a scent like rot. Putrid.
Meths?
Stupid bastard.
He"ll be blind soon if he"s not careful. Or worse.
I shiver, tugging my jacket tight. The days are still warm, but the nights are getting colder. A faint breeze nips through my coat. My shoes too. The soles are wearing thin.
Stupid-Bastard’s not shivering. He looks quite cheerful, in fact. Turning my way, he waves the bottle at me, grinning, brown-toothed, his lips split and cratered with a purple tinge.
How long"s he been drinking t
