GUINNESS

Where I am isn’t entirely clear.

Who is this woman sitting in my lap and why is she drinking my beer?

Jonas shrugs his shoulders, the band is loud—I can’t hear what he’s saying.

We’ve had several beers, both of us—Jonas loves Guinness—so here we are, three or four stouts deep, in a bar, and there’s a woman in my lap, laughing, drinking my drink. I don’t know who she is—I don’t know the name of the band. She’s wearing a tight black and white dress.

She drags me to the dance floor for the third or fourth time and kisses me, making a mess of it.

I twirl her into the throng of equally inebriated woman crowded around the drummer and return to my seat. Her friend has a slow, shy smile—she isn’t dancing—dressed in black, hair pulled back.

I mount my stool and look at her. She says something. I can’t hear a damn thing. I smile and nod and an hour later we’re walking the streets looking for her friend who has disappeared.

She asks me to check the men’s bathroom.

I do, to no avail, and we keep looking.

She starts explaining to me—in a rather shit-faced sort of way—that she’s in a relationship, and that she is very happy and that the sex is great and that everything is fine—except that it’s falling apart.

We meet Jonas on the sidewalk, he’s empty handed—no cigar, didn’t find her.

Eventually we leave.

Jonas is tall, thin, stubble-bearded. He’s wearing a t-shirt, shorts and a hoody. We’ve been talking about the places, countries, Asian and Europe, and he shares with me stories of Russia and India and the corruption he has experienced.

I tell him about Idaho.

He’s an engineer, works for a big company, gets sent all around the world—he works on machines, took a few days off to surf.  He and I share a hostel in Tauranga. Nice guy. He’s from Belgium, here on business.

He’s going to Mount Maunganui tomorrow morning to surf—he calls them sessions—he loves surfing, it's a passion of his.

We decide to grab breakfast together tomorrow.

I’m hitching a ride.