Saturday Night Fever

Unmade bed. A trashbin half-full of crumpled orange off-brand Kleenex. Empty soup bowls, passport lying next to the radio, as if the choice were that easy. Three black shirts for impressing, one white shirt for beauty. One shelf of books and DVDs so different from the bottom four, bursting with sin. Opened and unopened tea bags, origami cranes, trays of decongestion, a wall covered with wishful thinking and a guitar that stands ever-ready by the desk. Pieces of art, collecting dust.

One girl, who doesn't want to believe in rock 'n roll but whose body does. Sex, drinking, smoking--all of it so appealing but so gritty and dirty inside for the next two days. Did that cold come from the cute boy in the bar, or had it been building--was it the kissing or the pollen that did it? Or is congestion just one form of hungover?

Can love hold out, in the face of rejection? Are any of us truly courageous enough, to love unrequitedly? Or does the body demand more? Do our hormones, does our sex instinct, that ferocious drive, care for anything about fidelity? If "needs aren't met", does the body overrule the mind about matters of the heart? Who wins that tug of war? When our morality keeps us cold in bed at night, does our body find any consolation in that? If I loved from a distance, if I loved a memory, would that be enough to help me say no? Or would, eventually, I disservice what I once perceived as pure, and forgo the comforts of distant fidelity to find the pleasures of immediate release? Is it even disservice, when the object of our celibacy is unaware, of both love and cuckold?