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You wouldn't guess to look at me, lounging on a beach in my threadbare linen suit, my battered briefcase half-buried at the heels of my dirty bare feet, that I was once a very wealthy man. You wouldn’t guess it, but that doesn't mean that it is not the truth.

Watching as I close my eyes and take another half-hearted sip from a half-empty bottle of Segarra Absenta, you might guess that I was another penniless expatriate, through with seeking the elusive inspiration that seems to hide so well in the dirty alleys of the cities.

I shudder almost imperceptibly and, as I wipe my mouth on the sleeve of my jacket, you might think that I was another drunken, world-weary intellect, sick of the heartache and loneliness caused by too many meaningless nights with intoxicating, intoxicated women half my age. Women whose mouths taste like the warm, bottom gulp of beer after you've smoked too many filterless cigarets.

Throwing my head back, I lazily drape one arm over my face, shielding my eyes from the blazing sun, and my chest heaves as I take a giant breath of blood-warm air. My breathing appears to be almost an afterthought and you think to yourself, maybe he’s sick. Maybe he’s in need of help.

And maybe I am.

You think all these things, not realizing how close to the truth each one really is. Then, proving your basic humanity, you apathetically turn your pale face away, disgusted, and point yourself in the direction of the resort. I leave your mind almost as quickly as I entered, and by the time your heels are clicking rhythmically across the cool marble floor of your four-star hotel, the only thing occupying your mind is your new cashmere cardigan—a sweater to wear in more hospitable climates than this.

Don't think I didn't notice you.

Once more, I go through the routine of taking a drink. I toss my head back and smile again as the sun's rays turn the inside of my eyelids a brilliant pink. I just lie there thinking, for what must be hours.

Or at least a few minutes.

I know I'm in desperate need of a haircut. A shave. Shoes. But my finances permit no such frivolities. My suit could use some attention from a dry-cleaner, but what would I wear while I wait?

Instead of wasting time rationalizing my hygiene, I’ll explain why I'm here. At the beginning of this story, there was no girl. There was no crazy crime. It didn't even start with a drinking binge.

I left the comfort of my home and the security of my job for no good reason at all.