It was 42 degrees even in the shade. It was the height of the last remnant days of school for the year, like summer, when every being below the age of 19 vows to never grow up and live as if for forever. They have said their amens and downed their poison.

It wasn’t because he ran out of words, but rather his lips were getting flaky and dry that he kissed her. No inch of skin left untouched by his undirected clusters of lust. He drank out of her like a man out in the desert. But as irony has it, he was in fact a man out in the desert and the lovely lady about to spread open her legs is that fountain of water only a stone’s throw away that he could never reach with his pathetic crawl and outstretched hand as if grasping for a bosom. What lovely metaphors he said to himself as he compared the lady out of the dark alleys of his mind to a water fountain. Quite fitting indeed as he crawled out of the violent ripples of his bed after 10 minutes worth of love making with this faceless female fatale born entirely out of fiction, pornography and Zara Chamberlain.

Zara Chamberlain, third daughter to Geoffrey Chamberlain of Kelabit and Canadian descent, second highest ranking taxpayer in the neighbourhood. An affinity for everything Pink Floyd and the only identified keeper of the biggest collection of rare vinyl of any kind in close proximity. None bootlegged. His neighbours have a subtle liking for his routine of lulling Procol Harum through the night but none knew the songs, just that this man has a keen ear for fine music. Zara’s auditory sphere on the other hand glorifies the second coming of rock music of the mid 70’s citing Blondie and Joy Division as great influence. She channels her inner Karen O in the comforts of her pseudo bohemian private quarters donning nothing but this vintage biker leather jacket and sea foam green boy shorts all the while never breaking character. Like many of her generation of bards and poets of punk, she does not want to be tied down by the clutches of formal education but paradoxically looks up to tattooed guitar wielding men with merits from the Ivy League. Call her a walking contradiction; call her anything you want because she does not care. She has the air of an elitist singer-songwriter but none found it boastful. She in fact is a contradiction in and of herself. He wants her so bad.

Today, Maurice is having it bad on the stairway as he struggles with his descending steps towards breakfast, Redbull and crackers, a picture of health. The night before, he tanked himself in with antioxidants and cheap cooking wine. They’re not catalysts to get wasted, but for self gratifying spiritual discovery. His words. He has been left alone in the house with both his parents away on separate working trips across the pond. With the current state of the house, he is not impressed with himself. He has gained 5 kilograms in a matter of 3 days and has not been doing the dishes. He has managed his way down and tip toed his way through a landmine district of unfinished kuaci packets and Pringles from all of yesterday’s movie marathons to the kitchen. In unfixed dimensions he sees a shift in the paradigms of the houses’ working mechanics. Violent non -existent knocks on adjacent doors, lifting chairs only when seated on and busybody peering sunflowers from larger than usual flower vases all made for an Alice in Wonderland brand of feeling, or a Michael Gondry film – The Science of Sleep, most likely. She does not know he exists.

Never was easy the path to love’s troughs. Nor is it easy to find a way out of the gutter, especially when the gutter is 4 feet deep which Maurice fell into back in the 4th form. The evening was soft and light on sunshine. It rained earlier in the day leaving big, small, and tiny puddles of mirroring water for street smart narcissists. He would leap on them like an ancient sea monster crushing a great city. He is the end to this primordial soup of a city. He would hark back ever so often to this memory of wet days and wetter school shoes. Blame it on the hormones.