The water looks like oil. When I’m drunk, I ignite the oil. She’s got nice breasts, don’t you think? They appear so smooth and smell like Play-Doh. This oil, though, it gets on my clothes. It chokes me when I’m trying to sleep. Reminds me of the paints I used to use back when painting was my weapon of choice. How many men do you reckon suckled her before I did? How many shot their stuff inside her belly? I bet quite a few, but she’s always so evasive and finds a way of changing the subject whenever I bring it up. We had a conversation a while ago regarding what we would eat if we were about to be executed. I proclaimed that my last meal would be steak and chips and peppercorn sauce with a chocolate sundae for dessert washed down with Chinese lager. She said she’d have spaghetti followed by profiteroles and a bottle of sparkling water. My choice was better by far. In the park near the centre of town, we once ate profiteroles for lunch. It was summer, and we fed them to each other with our fingers because we didn’t have any cutlery. At one point, I kissed her while she was still eating and we passed the chewed-up cream and pastry back and forth between our mouths. This was quite a turn on and resulted in me sliding my hand up her skirt. For a few seconds my fingers touched the sun but then she told me not to because there were children around which caused me to sulk. We talk on the phone, and I suggest spending the day in Windsor. Maybe grabbing a McDonald’s and browsing the stores even though we don’t have enough money. After, we can feed the ducks and then sit in some shady bar people watching growing drunker by the hour. The only problem is that the more I drink the more I’ll start sniffing out the residue of those ex-lovers of hers. It’ll cause an argument, and no doubt she’ll cuss me before storming off in a huff. But this is just how I am, it’s not my fault, I’m a writer, I’ll cry, to which she’ll snap, don’t give me any of that shit, and then I’ll be in the dog house until she decides when I’ve suffered enough. Still, a day out would be good for us, don’t you think?
Author S. K. Nicholas 
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