Author S. K. Nicholas

Between her toes as they peek over the side of the bed, there’s a chasm where all her old lovers hang out. Sliding her fingers in circles in the one spot they could never find, she says she’s in search of a magic moment, but I’m bored and can’t think of a reply. Rolling a smoke, I shave the sides of my head and secretly wish to find three sixes birthmarked into my skull, but alas, I am not the antichrist. Crestfallen as she builds up speed in her quest for the perfect orgasm, I go downstairs and look out the kitchen window. The neighbour with tattoos on her breasts is stood in the garden next door putting her washing out to dry. Sucking on a cigarette as she hangs up her panties and bras, I try to imagine the two of us engaged in sordid acts, but there’s no spark, only humdrum realities that crumble like dead flowers. Turning away from her spoiled flesh, there’s a sudden urge in me to write a poem, but as soon as I try and get something going, the words go missing leaving me with sheet after sheet of lined paper with nothing more than my signature doodles on them. Squares with crosses in, and diamonds that resemble the shape of her sex with leaves as public hairs. The afternoon drags on. Idly passing the time by cutting out pages from my favourite novels and sending them to addresses plucked at random from the phone book, she keeps going despite not reaching her zenith. Listening to her frustrated sighs drift down from above, I laugh at the absurdity of it all while emptying her bag on the coffee table and inspecting what comes out. Bored almost immediately, I go upstairs and stand before her. Looking up at me slightly distraught and delirious, I strip naked and masturbate over her feet. Horrified by my lack of respect, she howls at me in French and threatens to cut off my balls. Flicking my goo all over her belly, I run out the room laughing until the air in my lungs reaches zero and everything blurs. These days of boredom; how they shine so wild against the rest.