The Masochist takes a trip somewhere nice

"Let's spend a week at the beach together," he wrote her in a letter from the seashore.

He never planned on sending the letter (but he had the money to do so). He preferred his words and sketches and wet sand to voices and spooning and soggy breakfast. He winced. The flashes of color in his eyelids reminded him of how much he'd had to drink all day and he wondered what the time was. He picked up a shell to listen to the ocean, but it was drowned out by the sounds of the waves which were already crashing at his knees. He put some sand down his pants and rubbed. He was getting a rash. He would get cream later.