Coming towards me from the bottom of the garden, she has a funny look in her eye that won’t say no. Sniffing her like a dog, I’m after the scent of pot but find only dreary tobacco. On the driveway in the glovebox of her car, there’s a tin of snuff and several polaroids of us in a state of mild undress. Oh, those knowing brown eyes. That shy, becoming smile that has a habit of disarming so easily. Whenever she’s nearby, I react in a way that makes me highly volatile. I’ve tried controlling it, but she does something to me that obliterates the silence of years in the space of a solitary second. There is a need in me to possess her, to diminish her star, and yet on the other side of the coin, I’m in complete awe of this creature that makes me seem so small and ugly in comparison. To combat how unstable she makes me, I watch The Shining several times in a row while consuming copious amounts of wine attempting to unravel Kubrick’s vision. After each viewing, I go for a drunken walk and smoke cigars while talking to myself in an attempt to make sense of my findings. One night I sing her praises- then the next I hate her. On Tuesday I’m a thunderstorm, then on Wednesday her eyes and her smile and the tip of her nose on a pillow made of sand brings only tears of joy. Is it me, or is it her? After all, we’re only bones and nothing more, and yet it’s not that simple, is it? No, it never is. Taking photos of her as she showers, I am naked also. Spreading soap bubbles across her flesh, she keeps looking at my cock as it swings this way and that. As I’m trying to find the optimum angle in which to best capture the mysteries of her breasts, she loses her composer. Grinning at the absurdity of my clumsy sex, she closes her eyes and sings a song of which seems so familiar. The words open a door in the back of my mind, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what’s on the other side.