What is it about two people that just want each other? There are two things I loathe, hunger and sex, they distract me from my studies, they do, they really do.

– Wanna drink coffee?
– No thanks, am bored, I don’t know where am going, what I want nor a purpose; I am already high, thank you.
– I least you have politeness, come again sometime?

‘The sun shone, the last I saw her’ He said, ‘the curtains in my flat were drawn, and I had Blue Six on. Some silky song about some naked pair, somewhere in Paris. I didn’t feel for the news so I kept the TV in the dark, or was it the other way around, I just don’t know anymore who is it that keeps who in the dark.’
And then, like a hit soul by Cupid he thought on: he kept fantasying.

– I didn’t really wanted to say I love you, but I did, in my head; I did wanted to tell you, but I didn’t, didn’t I? Then he answered himself
– No, I couldn’t read your mind that day. He thought of speaking to her: there is a secret, a secret that will destroy this, which we have now, this time, this hour, the present.
– Come again?
– I already have, once or twice, and am still feeling ill, the good kind.

Then he kept quiet. Only to mull once more.
Three days and four moral scolds have gone since I saw her, and through two days I sent her a million sms’eses in my head while battling my emotions, compulsions. I didn’t fuck her, and I feel fucked all the way, my brains juiced out of power; I been way too long alone with someone else, I needed a woman, and that woman just had me for hors d’oeuvre.

What is it about women and their fragrance? Just leave me alone! They drive me nuts, I don’t want any of it, let me smell it! I say, quietly, to myself, and I run back as fast as I can to her presence in my head. I want her intoxicating voice, just let me have a vowel or two, let me have you again, and again over some beer at some pub, music sounds better with you. I want to pretend that which I am not, you give me life, woman, I love you and desperately need you out of my life, you disturb everything I have. My fantasies of you are just plain weekends, so I can return back to my double life. But I want to send you so bad, an SMS, only one; please get yourself back together. Compose yourself, so I did.
By midnight I composed a letter, far from being an SMS and short from turning into an e-mail, it was about recalling that fateful day of her appearance, her powerful stamina, and my weak sentimental constitution as I waited hoping for her not to come, to come to me. I was no match for her; she was a sturdy femme fatale….