in the last two weeks because although she doesn’t ask after my wellbeing, she does listen, and I feel most loved being at her side.
Two months ago, when I left New York, I immediately decided to head back to St. Lucia. It may seem juvenile and cowardly, but that’s the place I run away to when my life starts spinning out of control. I think about Sara every minute of every hour of every day. I allowed the most beautifully imperfect creature I’ve ever met to slip away. I was a fool and I don’t deserve her. I would’ve stayed in St. Lucia forever if I wasn’t the majority shareholder in my family’s empire.
It’s a bit odd that there are over eight million people in London but I have a reoccurring hallucination of seeing her pass me on the street, which I realize is preposterous since I’m in London while she’s in bloody New York City, but my mind sees her everywhere. For instance, just this morning as I left my flat on One Hyde Park, I could bet my left nut I saw Sara cross the road. I am fully aware that I may require treatment for my overactive imagination, but I can’t fucking help it. I walk along shops on Knightsbridge and imagine Sara wearing dresses I spy in the Harvey Nichols store windows. I even took a liking to drinking tea with milk and two sugars, and my new dietary intake includes a chocolate croissant for breakfast. I regret not asking her more questions; I wish I knew more about her like what types of food she fancies, whether she drinks red or white wine, if she likes dogs. I try to keep her memory alive along with all her little idiosyncrasies; the small little nuances that help me keep her close. I don’t reckon I’ll ever find another person that will compel me to feel what Sara made me feel in a handful of hours. Allowing myself to think about her gives me a reason to go on, knowing she’s out there, hopefully happy. I found her Instagram account and I frequent it every chance I get like the proper stalker that I am, hoping I may catch a small glimpse into a life I yearn to be a part of.
I haven’t called a soul to announce my return to London; I don’t fancy being social and when I catch my reflection in the mirror, I don’t quite recognize myself. I’m not myself. I left my heart in New York, specifically in Louis Bruel’s penthouse, and I doubt I’ll ever get it back. I did my due diligence and tried to work her out of my system. I got pissed and high, tried banging a pretty girl as soon as I got back to La Spa, and still bloody dreamt of nothing but Sara and those fucking eyes. I know that she and Jeffery Rossi are not and have never been married. Jeff is married to some woman named Jacqueline and they have two offspring.
There is no record of Sara and Jeffery being involved anywhere except in my mind as I reminisce about the night I watched him bang her. I replay that scene over and over in my head to punish myself for my careless callousness with her. She must surely be his longtime mistress and that would absolutely make sense with the few things she did reference about how the truth getting leaked would potentially harm him. I found out she was, in fact, married, here in London, but to some bastard named Gavin Masters. I battle with myself every morning and every night to stay put and not try to ring her, or go find her to try and save her again, but then I recall the stellar job I did the first time around. She doesn’t need a hero like me; she needed a man, not a coward. A real man would’ve waited to hear his lover give reason and not run like a child at the first sign of trouble. I’m left to drown in a sea of queries, but no one to offer any explanations to save me.
It’s lunchtime and I’ve decided to take my second cup of tea with milk and two sugars and get some highly polluted air on Piccadilly Circus, right outside my office, which actually seems on the tame side today. I fancy coming here, especially early in the morning, and I take a seat by