22nd December Forever?

So there he sat, surrounded by the remnants of his first semester of his second year. Macbook in front of him, books scattered across the desk, an homage to many late nights and last minutes. A tumbler of whiskey to his right, full to about an inch, more than enough, but not enough to make him think there was a problem. The house was empty, a cold December 22nd, closing in on midnight, all friends home for the holidays. there he sat, alone and blank. The meaningless encounters and disappointments that dominated his university life had worn thin. What is a fuck? A night of false passion, the pretence of intimacy, where problems and voids are replaced and forgotten in orgasm, often all too brief. Then the sun rises, illuminating the hollow act for what it was. For after the illusion has dressed and left without a semblance of recognition or affection there you lie, alone and naked, no different than what you were the morning before, the night gone by a dream, escaping the clasp of memory as you try to hold on that much longer. Back to reality. His mind drifting to the last person he allowed closeness with. Nicola was everything he should have wanted. Intelligent, political and blonde, a dangerous and seductive combination, who had given him the best sex of his life. And then the bitch had to ruin it all. It became real as soon as she sought exclusiveness, and he ended it, as swiftly as the relationship has passed. But why? it seemed as though as soon as a girl actually wanted him, that was it, the interest had gone, replacing it with an indifference, even a disdain at times. Nicola, with her slim but curvaceous body, her pert breasts and rounded arse, piercing, forever inquiring blue eyes, seemingly begging to be taken there and then. She perfect apart from one major flaw. Who wants perfection? And isn't perfection by nature subjective, therefore making perfection imperfect? He wanted the imperfection that was perfect for him. But was her ever going to get it? At least, even if he found it, if he ever had it, would he know it was there until it was gone? Would he look back and even care, recalling with curious nonchalance of what might have been? Probably not. Because underneath it all, perhaps he is happy alone, an island, content with sitting at his desk, imagining otherwise while sitting static, drinking his cheap whiskey. Did he ever find anyone? Was anyone ever perfectly imperfect as to become more than a caricature of affection? Who knows, because he is me, and then is now.