Author S. K. Nicholas

Restless and drunk, she sulks as I give her a piggyback up the biggest hill in town. Pressing her breasts against my shoulder blades, I pretend not to notice, but deep inside I’m loving every second. She moans and groans and pulls my hair, but despite another flash of her temper, she’s as perfect as can be. A light drizzle falling from clouds that fill up the entire sky, I let her down when we get to the cemetery and light myself a cigar. Wrapped in thunder, the stars are invisible, and yet I can feel their presence from so far away. I’m dizzy with love and from having consumed several beers on an empty stomach, but I’m not complaining because it makes me feel alive- more alive than I’ve felt in years. We won’t last long- none of my relationships ever do- and yet it doesn’t seem to matter. The pleasure is in each single moment. It would be a lie to say I’m uncaring because I care far more than I should. The issue is in not wanting to see the magic turn stale, and that’s what always seems to happen. You have the honeymoon of summer and wine, and then you’re dead in the water just like the rest of them. You have the world in the embrace of an angel, and then before you know it, you’re tied to keeping up appearances and paying off a mortgage. In one breath you’re fucking to the sounds of Pink Floyd having spent the past two days in bed together, the next you’re looking at garden sheds and speculating on what to have for Tuesday’s dinner. Growing up is a disease, and the longer I can avoid its grasp, the better. There are broken hearts on the corner of every block, and yet all I can do is laugh. It’s the only defence I have, and considering the odds, it’s probably the best.