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“Yer mad” Fuzz curled down the blower. “Mad!”. But 24 hours later there we were, on that beach, once again. Sunburn seeping in, that glorious, angry ball of fire in the sky bellowing down on us Sunburned, fried, frizzled. “You’ll brown up” Fuzz prophisised correctly for one of us, later that evening he would curse the red-blistered skin that would keep him awake in writhing pain. Pain, these few days away hoped to be a balm for it. Fuzz offloaded both loudly and candidly about his troubles, about the boat, the business deal, the broad. “That broad” he huffed “Broke my heart!” he chanted like a mantra, choosing not to call her by either her name or the countless questionable pet names he had for her. “Broke my heart, brother!” he exclaimed with his hands, turning his head for a second glance at the lithe bikini-clad thing who gave him a smile. He regaled the last six months at that beach in Portugal “Gone!” he almost yelled again, hands pointed to the sky, crying out to a God he didn’t believe in, who would no doubt intervene when Fuzz was to delight in his most delectable vices. We slowly meandered perpendicular to the shoreline, that pavement we’d hit thousands of times before. The southern sun continued to penetrate our unprotected skin as the happy chatter of holidaying families resonated up and down the coastline. Umbrellas and beach-shelters of a thousand colours dotted the sandy strip of beach, protecting the throngs of happy holiday-makers. Dads reefed and yanked trolleys down the soft sand while their wives wrangled young children, young feet moving gingerly over the hot, yellow surface. “Could have been you” Fuzz pointed at the multitudes of happy families “If you didn’t..”. A sideways stare quickly cut him off from continuing the truthful, slicing comment. The statement, unanswered, lingered in my mind. “Forgetaboutit” I mumbled to myself, a stark contrast to Fuzz outlandish recollections. Fuzz, sensing a sore spot, continued. “Putz” he responded in kind. Putz. All those words she said, and all the ones she didn’t say before she left. The daggers she shot from her eyes, the feelings without names, just actions, directed towards me at the revelation. The revelation that brought forth those four horsemen and the apocalypse of our love. Her demands, few but definite, everything I ended up not being able to give her. “I can change!” I tried to lie, not to her but to myself. Changing, to change, but these were the only clothes that could fit the husk of a man who could explain everything, except for himself. “If only you let me in!” she would plead, but he wouldn’t even let himself in. Summer at this beach, the families, the sun. It all came back, all came flooding back. Those promises of love made by two kids who knew the feeling of the word, but not the meaning. What meant more – the feeling, or the meaning, or the practice of...