There’s a porno magazine filled with hundreds of earwigs. When you shake the pages they fall out and blow in the wind like confetti. Humming Pink Moon to yourself while admiring the images of so many nude women, you wonder what it would’ve been like to have kissed the lips of Nick Drake. I’m sure despite his awkwardness and shy demeanour his embrace would have had the ability to send shivers down your spine at the merest of touches. To have parted his hair and to have gazed into those sullen eyes- he was a heartbreaker without even knowing, that’s for sure. And that voice- those words- how you miss him. How you wish with all you have to have been his friend, but alas he is dead. Dead for a decade before you were even born. Finding one that takes your eye, you unzip yourself and get down on your knees. The mud is dry and the bush you’re crouched in thick so as to conceal your dirty deed from anyone who happens to be around. It helps that it’s stopped raining as well, although a little rain never did anyone any harm. Pulling out your cock, you gaze at the woman and imagine taking her. She’s a young thing, late teens, brunette, milky breasts. Her eyes remind you of an ex-lover. Did you pick her for this reason, or was it coincidence? Come to think of it, that girl you like who you’ve seen at work- is that because she reminds you of (_____) as well? Possibly. No, be honest, it’s probably. No, it is. Working yourself into a frenzy you go back and remember how it used to be when the two of you made love, and even though you swore to never think of her ever again, you take out your phone and immediately search for her on Instagram. Ooh, it feels so bad, but it can’t be helped. Seeing her face, you beat yourself off feeling ashamed yet liberated. It’s over before it even begins, and in the second or so when your body is engulfed by the warm rainbow, you cry out her name and tell God that one day you’ll win her back- that one day, you’ll make her love you just like she used to. And then as suddenly as it occurred, your body falls limp. Dropping your phone so it bounces on a stone by your knee, you remove the tissue from your pocket and give yourself a wipe. Humming River Man, you imagine playing guitar with Nick in a field one summer’s night back in the early seventies with him smoking a joint and you drinking a beer, and even though you can’t play guitar you imagine how much fun it would be, and as he looks over at you and smiles that shy smile of his, you close your eyes and drift away.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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