It’s movie night. There’s wine and pizza. At first, I’m kinda aroused and fiddle with myself while touching her up, but then I become giddy and need to step outside. Outside, there’s noise from drunken kids hanging out on the corner of the street and a light rain that’s beginning to fall that makes me move under a tree where I finish my cigarette while taking a piss. The piss is far too orange to be considered healthy, but it’s of no consequence. Finishing my smoke, I move inside and catch her adjusting her bra because moments earlier I had popped out her breasts and felt them up good and proper. She’s in need of a shower, but it’s okay because when we fuck the scent of our dirty bodies will bring comfort to my soul. It will do this because so much of my life has been spent in isolation, and so the sense of being connected with another makes me feel alive in the most peculiar of ways. Opening another bottle of the white stuff, I pour us two big glasses and nestle myself next to her. The movie is trash, but it doesn’t matter. Sniffing her ear and then her neck, I kiss her a few times before raising the subject of serial killers. Earlier in the day, there had been talk about Brady again, and then the new film about Dahmer. Brady’s book has stirred something within me regarding certain aspects of my existence that had been buried for many years. Namely, the nature of existence itself, and whether or not any of this has meaning. As for Dahmer, he was a loner who drank too much, so that’s says it all. She none too interested, but she enjoys hearing me talk about my interests, and despite my ham-fisted ways, she knows what I’m trying to say. The film plays out, but we’re indifferent to the scenes, for words make way for actions, and soon enough the universe ceases to exist, and all that’s left are our breathless bodies lying side by side on the couch.
Author S. K. Nicholas 
Leave a reply to AJournalForDamnedLovers Cancel reply