Amy

I raise her hair clips to my nose, no scent but sterile metal. Shoving expired nicotine patches aside, I smile and think - that was when I gave a shit. Whilst continuing to rummage through the drawer I snicker and voice out loud 'as if I'll ever use these condoms'. Her iron tablets sit perched menacingly on the bookshelf, persisting that one should care for their daily intake. Remembering a scene in some past film I've since wished to replicate, I grab them violently, leap for the sink, and emancipate the little pills, scattering them nosily down the porcelain. Turning into glug at the mouth of the drain, they stick. It's blocked; nothing is ever like the movies. My thirty seconds of fame slapped into two minutes of mundane reality. Struggling to clean the sink, thoughts of her suffuse my being.

The best way to get over a woman is not to turn her into literature; it is to turn literature into her, to stay one chapter ahead and dictate the motif. She is my cartoon girl, but seeing as I lack the capacity to draw, her animated disposition will inspire only words that I hope can portray a faithful form.

Her constant enquiry as to the subject of my thoughts initially caused frustration and annoyance - that much was obvious, puerile little child. The irony that she should be reading Lolita, whilst I feel as though I' acting the role of the protagonist Humbert Humbert, was not lost. In fact, it puts me in a peculiar position to be writing of her, of Amy.

She' keeping her lips forbidden until sure of my intentions. This doesn't bother me as much as I make out to her, as I have no idea of my intentions, however, I do know the last of them would be to hurt her; how wrong I was. Every time I'm denied access to her mouth I crave it more ferociously than last. She swiftly turns her head east, and with great command avoids my impetuous attempt at osculation. This is the kind of power wielded that should so obviously have demonstrated my inevitable demise. I bow my head to no authority, only that of an 18 year old girl I met last week; Amy.

The daughter of a vagabond, fatherless to heroin, yet, she ominously confessed - 'as bad as it sounds, I do want to try heroin - but only once'. These are memories that for the first time in my life I am afraid of forgetting, loosing them to the inevitable despair I am sure to undergo. This is the chronicle of a man dictating the terms of his annihilation vis-a-vis a vague concept, an enigma called love. Whilst plummeting toward regretful hindsight, this man must formulate a relative depiction of the enigma impervious to description. I am that man; I love Amy.

Freddy K.