Dear S.

Dear S.,

Do you remember the time we went back to your alabaster chamber with two birds we met outside the bar? I imagine not, as you were quite drunk, but their names were Emily and Diana. You called Emily your little falcon (the room was spinning) and threw her aggressively on the bed and offered to pet her feathers. I remember you smelled like shit. I remember you stripping and revealing to us your withered old-man's body, grey hair on your chest and balls. Are you not ashamed? Or are you not aware of how ugly you've become? I was worried you would cut the poor girl with your sequin undergarments. In the morning there was blood all over the bed. I thought you'd gone too far.

I played the good Samaritan and told Diana to run away. "Things will only get worse," I whispered to her in a serious breath. She had to work in the morning. I don't suppose she had a very productive day. Had you worked a day in your life, you would know it is hell to do with a hangover. Or so I've heard.

In the end, what is to blame for this mess we keep making? The heroin? The rum? The man? The feeling of flesh and hair? The sound of a moaning girl?

We really must do it again. I hate that I let Diana get away.

Your greatest challenger,

Nigel Tewksbury