osmoala

I stayed in the bungalow.
   It was maybe ten metres from the water on this little stretch of sand and Jane’s scent was still in the sheets. I missed her, but it was probably better to be sentimental here than, let’s say, in a prison.
   I loved to listen to the sound of the waves rolling in. I would sit on the porch for hours watching the ocean. There were not so many westerners staying here, but every day people came from the other neighbouring beaches to bask in the sun and swim in the turquoise water, because this was possibly the most untouched part of the whole east coast.
   There was this male gay couple who came here now and then. They had always arguments about something, shouting at each other with their arms waving in the air, and finally they would wade into the water together, holding hands and make out.

I was committed to a life of solitude on this beach; eat my meals in the restaurant, swim in the ocean and read a few books. When Jane was gone it was like I was never going to speak to any other human being again.
   This was my plan. But that’s not what happened.