She got him drunk; he got her drunk. Tongues in throats, fingers at throats, growling. “I’ll have you,” he said.

“—- you,” she said.

“There’s people lose teeth, talking that way,” he said, and she kept quiet, but curled her fingers underneath the neck of his shirt — the pressure on his collarbone gave him a headache — and tore it away from him. Underneath he was hairless as a newborn.

“Dammit,” he said, and grabbed her hair, bent her head backwards to expose her throat. He bit at her, salty taste of her, blood knocking against his teeth. She trembled: her hands clenched into fists.

She cracked three of his ribs, bruised his eye, bloodied his nose, split his lip. He was more careful — the marks he left wouldn’t show, there’d be nothing there with which he could be charged, but she’d feel his hands on her for a week afterwards.

Afterwards, they slumped against the wall of the alley, slid down it, sat in the urine smell and he dripped blood onto the concrete. She laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing. Just — this wasn’t what I expected.”

He spat a heavy missile against the side of the dumpster. “—- that,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said. “—- that.”