Author S. K. Nicholas

There was a cute girl serving behind the bar. In possession of a body full of tattoos and a head of luscious curls, she was beautiful and bland at the same time. Her name was Estelle, and those big brown eyes of hers were so seductive she gave me the itch almost immediately, the only problem was that she’d never heard of Bukowski. Peeling off from the crowd, I’d ordered a pint and a shot of sambuca for luck. Making conversation while pouring the drinks, she smiled sincerely, and I was pleased to respond. Wearing a short black skirt with black tights, her figure was enough to make me slur my words even though I wasn’t yet drunk. She was curvaceous with breasts the shape of my hands, probably with large, darkened areolas to match. It was hard to make eye contact because she knew what I was thinking, and despite my best attempts at appearing bored, there was no disguising my delight at being in the company of one so tempting. She asked me what I did, to which I gave her two replies. The first was the day job, the second the profession of a writer. ‘Have you been published?’ ‘Later in the year.’ ‘Who’s your favourite writer?’ ‘Bukowski.’ ‘Who?’ And so ended my desire to take her in my arms and devour every inch of her. It was doomed to begin with anyway, for sex without meaning is as useless as knocking one out while looking through the Argos catalogue. It simply won’t do. Still, the booze was good, and every time she was nearby, I eyed her up without shame. Scowling at everyone else, the night soon descended into farce. Fights between rivals saw tables and chairs knocked this way and that, and screaming bitches spilled outside as it pissed down with rain so they could claw through several layers of makeup with their fancy fingernails. Ordering one for the road, I told the girl to check out Bukowski and left. Unsteady on my feet as I lit a cigarette, two chavs were scuffling in the road to my left. One of them had a bloody face, and this made me happy, for I wished them both to beat each other into a coma from which they would never wake. Jumping in a taxi, I was filled with a strange mixture of despair and elation. The flashing neon lights that sped by the window left me in awe, as did the memory of Estelle’s tight body. Even the two dickheads fighting had been a sight to savour, and yet it wasn’t enough. There was no escaping how I felt. Never had been. Alcohol and women make for a pleasant distraction, and the promise of love can cut through so much shit, and yet underneath it all, I’m still numb. Those around me seem so adept at fitting in. They embrace life as if its only purpose was to be lived. There’s something in my design however that prevents me from such pleasures, and with every passing year, I grow more confused as to what it is I’m supposed to be doing.