Then I suddenly turned and grabbed his wrists. They felt weak in my hands. I pitied him; my heart was aching.

"I would listen to you for hours on end," I said softly, "if only you spoke to me, if only you let me."

I saw and felt his body go slack. His eyes squeezed tight, then looked downward.

He burst into tears and covered his face with his hands, ashamed. Once again he curled up on the towel, and once again, with his legs folded, he resembled a defenseless, innocent child.

I gave him a kiss on the cheek, folded my towel quietly and carefully gathered up all my things, and slowly headed toward the couple. They were locked in an embrace, nuzzling each other's necks, smelling each other's scent. I stood watching them for a moment, and amid the low roar of the waves I heard a whispered "I love you."

They escorted me back home. I thanked them, apologizing for the interruption, but they were reassuring, insisting they were happy to help me.

Just now, Diary, as I was writing to you, I felt guilty. I left him on the damp beach weeping bitter, pitiful tears; I deserted him like a coward. He might even get sick. But I did it all for him, as well as me. He has often left me in tears, and rather than hug me he sent me away with his mockery. So it isn't such a tragedy for him to be left alone. Nor is it for me.

30 April 2001

I'm happy, happy, happy! It hasn't happened the way it should, and yet I'm happy. No one ever calls me, no one comes looking for me, and yet I'm oozing joy from every pore, I'm improbably content. I've banished all my paranoias. No more do I anxiously wait for his phone call; no more do I suffer the anguish of having him on top of me, wriggling all over without giving a damn about my body and me. No more do I have to lie to my mother when, after I return home, she asks me where I've been. Like clockwork I would reply with just any old story: downtown to have a beer, the cinema, the theater.