250 Words: In the flat above Peter James

I sit by the window watching the cars on the crossroads, letting their noise drown out the ringing in my ears caused by youthful exuberance in noisy places.  I used to dance, sweat and drink every single weekend.  Now I watch other people going places and try to forget.

I imagine who they are and give them stories of lives and loves more successful than mine.  I send them to meetings of great import, large gatherings and small affairs in parks.  And these imaginings, I write them down and draw them out so that I don't forget.

Or I just admire the cars- each a shining example of man's ingenuity.  I listen to their array of noise that melts together and fills my head with beautiful nothingness.  Like cotton wool packing protecting me from thought and letting me forget.

Through the evening I watch television with glassy eyes, always listening to that traffic, never really paying attention  to the screen except for the flickering light it throws onto me and the walls.  

I imagine I am in an American fifties drive-in, the sofa the car's long front seat.  Fooling around with her rather than watching the feature.  Sliding under her clothes, cupping each breast in my hand, hers on my face, my neck, my chest, getting ever lower.  Later in bed I masturbate this fantasy but never reach the end. 

See?  I'm unable to forget.  Since she fell down the stairs (drunk; not enough to protect) my life has stopped.