There’s “DOG” written on a piece of torn cardboard that used to be the packaging for one of my leashes. I remember writing it there way late two night ago. Early early Monday morning before the gods of this land decided to exact their devious revenge for the way I treated Aga. She deserved better, and my, how fun it would’ve been. But Sundays at Single Fin seem to have a mind of their own. A bitter taste is in my mouth now from that night’s decisions. And it’s not just the grapefruit extract that Nate promises will make everything better. I should’ve stuck with Aga, but I somehow ended up on the beach at Padang Padang with some woman from New York. She looked my age, but she told me she was 29. It was a desperate hour.
And then in the morning something didn’t feel right, and as the day progressed it got worse. Dehydration. Diarrhea. Delirium. My head was feather light when we went to surf Balangan, and last night the cold chills gripped me and every joint screamed and my fingers shook and trembled to try to grab something that wasn’t there. Aga was gone. I probably deserved this.
