The cityscape fell back slowly as the boat inched its way to the next island. This is the beginning I would prefer to tell, but that would be untrue. The beginning started in that small room, at six in the morning, while both of us were high from non-sleep and a pipe of intoxication, laughing at every item of clothing he throws into his bag, each accompanied by a trivial comment of how it got there when it shouldn’t be or why this is likable so and so, while Frank Sinatra hums in the background. It took us over an hour to decide that it was probably best to go and thus headed to the bus terminal with no less expectations that sand and sun and seas.
It was three months ago since we last went off together. It’s honest to say I have slowed down from the usual coming and going, which has become the SOP since things happened but I never wanted to leave him and weekends apart always felt awful. If I had made this trip alone, I would have had a different itinerary. I’d probably end up camping on the beach and taking day trips to the town, smoking alone in the local bar and randomly talking to boat men and children. It sounds sad but I liked it that way. Most of the time, dragging somebody else around is painstaking. But sometimes, it feels good – even consoling – to have someone to share the silence and sceneries with.
It wasn’t a very memorable trip. We lounged around the resort, slept over Discovery Science and Bacardi, had dumb moments – lots of them, took a side trip to the Virgin Island. Plus I don’t like spending a lot of money. But those pancakes and bacon were to die for.
I don’t remember much but we walked on the beach at night and he said he was a moron. We strutted along the sands in the morning and he said that was the most romantic kiss of his life. Perhaps I should prefer to stay in my wits next time. Talking would’ve been more proper and memorable.