Halloween 6 is playing, and while I’m knocking back the wine attempting to create portals with words that just don’t seem quite right, she’s on her phone looking at photos of people she declares to hate with utter devotion. The main woman in Halloween has long, gingerish hair. She’s pale and slim, and in my drunken state, I begin to visualise her breasts. They’re small and sculptured and smooth and sweet like fruit. So much thought is given to their imagined appearance that I begin writing about them, but she keeps looking over my shoulder at what I’m doing so I stop. Anyway, who wants to read about my fantasies regarding the breasts of cellular women trapped in the 90’s? Who wants to hear about the dirty thoughts of a man-child-come-writer that should’ve grown up years ago? There have been times when I’ve wanted to watch as she touches herself, but she’s not at one with her body and always denies my desires. When I take her even though she tells me she’s too tired, I chew and bite her ear and tell her that one day she’ll let me see it all and that the music she makes with her fingers will set us both free. She calls me cruel. Says I’m selfish. But it’s not true, not true at all because the beauty I see in her is unlike anything else. It’s pure and good and ethereal, and I want to come undone before its gaze. I want it to destroy me. To vaporise my image and mind, so all that’s left is my lonely soul blowing in the wind like a carrier bag from Tesco. In many ways, she already has my soul. It’s been hers since the day we first met. Y’know, that moment when my eyes fell upon her as she walked before me unaware of what she was stirring deep inside. It sounds ridiculous, but I knew in those first few seconds that the rest of my life would be dedicated solely to her and that she would embody each and every one of my obsessions. She tells me to stop being stupid, but it is what it is, and for good measure, I turn her face to mine and seal it with a kiss.