- Vol. 04
- Chapter 11
Leaving a Thief
Today you sit, all karmic chill and healthy beach-pumiced toes. Our eyes meet, with no flicker of acknowledgement. #lifesaver #poverty-sucks #holiday-nightmare. I know you’ve recognised me. You sit invisible between dusty sands and tourist’s wealth. As I pass, you shuffle backward toward shade.
Opportunistically you dip that hawk’s profile into the red wiry fluff of the tartan blanket. Hearing you sniff, I know the scent. It’s my cologne you smell. It wasn’t the softest blanket. I returned it in good faith. It was still as “itchy scratchy” as it was over the nakidity of my goosebumps. This morning you had spoken in monotone but your teeth flashed a grin, as you handed me your kaftan.
“You can go to jail if you’re caught like that.”
Kasandra had been the she-devil I’d hankered for. Limbs too long, hair too blonde. She already had a reputation as a stallion tamer. For a year my purpose had been to entertain her. An insane courtship to capture a feral creature, but instead she caught me. Once a lothario, eventually I was fawning to serve her. By attempting to own her, I had caged myself. My virility waned as spontaneity was replaced by planning. She languished and toyed with my obsession. Hourly changing her mind as I fought to please her.
In the beginning we laughed, walked in step, shared the hi-jinx. But the more we gelled the further she pushed. I no longer knew myself. My life was her amusement. My ways of wooing were now lame. Booking this trip was my make-or-break. We were already broken, unfixable.
Shrieking, splashing, sandals in hand, she dragged me down to the beach, to the water’s edge. Called me chicken. Stripped down to knickers and less, she beckoned from the waves. So delicious.
Leaving a ThiefCaught by her euphoria my clothes dropped. My cologne soaked shirt joined an untidy pile of our stuff, water enveloped us both, rising with the waves. She was fast. Desperate measures to loosen my grip, to shake me off. To lose me in the foam.
You were there. You saw the whole scene. Decadent stupidity for vapid tourists with no connection to what they have. You see the whole damn rotten scene every year. Witless holiday makers. Twisted love. I would not be the last.
You didn’t give me time to feel helpless, embarrassed. With a promise that I brought it back and left it in the lobby of my hotel. You handed me your Mexican kaftan. Scratchy, itchy against my cologne drenched, sea splashed nakedness. No one else around. Beach deserted, early morning, I regained a modicum of dignity. Words evaporated. I didn’t say thank you. Foreigners have an expectation of generosity, kindness from the indigenous land. Soon the pure cotton, white Spa Robe, would wrap warm and soft. I didn’t care about my clothes. For a year I’d lost my soul. You tipped your hat.
“Girl gotcha bad.” But even Kasandra had now slipped from my mind.