I’m not sure if the story I want to tell you is entirely true. Some of it I only recognize from camera phones. And after so many months a lot of it is still foggy and some answers I don’t even want to know.
It all began, I think, with the Lawyer’s cycling accident. As he was coming to meet us down at the beach, he quite thoroughly devastated his bike, and his wrist along with it. There were no trip wires, evil leprechauns or divine interventions involved, merely a hangover and some sunrays.
Later on, we went on a tour of the island’s clubs: Lust, Kinky and Scandall. Amidst the sweat of dancers, throb of lights and relentless basses I vaguely remember all of them interconnected by our host’s white ribbon (and by ribbon I mean garter).
The days passed in blissful oblivion, relishing in nature’s gifts both on and under our skin, doing our best to take in the best of summer, laziness and hedonism. No-one owed anyone anything, but we still exchanged fluids generously.
In the end we all happily returned, brandishing slight tans and distinct bitemarks, into the dreary, black-and-white, guilt-ridden everyday life that we broke away from. The Lawyer’s new cast included.
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