Today was the dreariest of days. The sky was an ocean of greyness, and all I could smell was seaweed despite living hundreds of miles from the sea. I remember watching this program on TV once about an old boy who had never visited the coast. He was in his ‘70s and spent his entire life having not once glimpsed the big blue. He’ll be long dead by now. I wonder if he ever made the journey? On the bus back to mine, I saw some woman walking past the church near where my dad lives. She wore black tights and had a fine set of legs. It reminded me of an old girlfriend from my days of living in Wycombe. Whenever she wore black tights, it would do something to me. My arms would turn to jelly, and I’d want to eat her up until I was sick. Like a fat kid gorging on cake. I haven’t felt like that in a long time, but the sight of this woman had me breaking out into a sweat, and it turned an otherwise forgetful afternoon into one worth writing about. When I got back, I ate pizza, drank coffee, took my vitamins, and then climbed into bed where I masturbated, thinking first of the woman in town and then of another who reminds me of the sun. For a brief moment—at the right moment—all the greyness in my body evaporated, and what emerged like a rising sun was a childhood memory of me eating toast around my grandparents’ house one early morning before school. The taste and aroma of the toast made the world a better place, and as the orgasm gripped my bones, I was back in a bubble of time that cradled me like like the arms of a lover.