To Andrea

‘There is no clarity like hindsight. And nothing exaggerates hindsight like being in the open water. And I am, right now, on the water for the last time, Andrea. This letter is to you and only to you. This letter is to tell you that in the waning hours of my life, I am thinking of you.

It’s cool out now, and like a storybook the skies is pink. Do you remember that night in Tuscany when I dared you to jump into the ancient water fountain. Those locals staring us down. We were drunk and you were happy. I remember telling you that night that I loved you.

Andrea, do you remember when we promised each other on the old bridge in a dirty corner of London that we’d never grow old? Can you remember how later that same evening you tricked a suave guy into buying two drinks for us? Do you remember dancing in Edinburgh until the sun rose again?

I never grew old, but maybe I should have. I never stopped chasing times like those. Something in me needed that spark throughout my life. And me always running, hurt a lot of people along the way.

I’m in the Atlantic now. It’s warm, and there is no land in sight. I won’t wake up tomorrow morning. There is no tomorrow morning for this old man. I’ve had too many and don’t care to see another.

In fact, you’ll never read this. Remember what you said when I left you that fall night? When I boarded the double decker bus bound for Heathrow. You said I was selfish. That I only do things with myself in mind. Well, Andrea, Let me tell you now that you were right. It took decades for me to accept, but now on this boat - in the open water - I can see the truth in your statement.

It’s amazing the thoughts one has before death. I wonder if other men have had similar thoughts. The clarity of hindsight, of looking at your life and judging each choice after it’s all been done.

If I could go back, and change just one thing, I would never have left that cold night. That thought warms me now, as I sit here alone. To think of what we could’ve done. Our little home near your parents house in the outskirts of florence. We’d have a farm with chickens and cows. And a grand garden. And I’d be a good partner. And supportive and just. I’d make you laugh. And the spark we felt in Edinburgh while we were drunk would never go away.

But, as we both know, I’m not that man. Now I can see I am not a good man. In fact, by most measures, I am a bad man. I used people. Hurt people. I hurt you, Andrea. I’m sorry.

You know how you always insisted that karma was real? A true force of nature that no one can escape. I think you were right. At least in my own life, karma has never failed to kick my ass.

Perhaps I’ll see you in the next life, Andrea.’

I decided to leave the letter at that. No sense getting more soppy and regretful. In the distance I saw the silhouette of a sailboat on the distant horizon. I tossed the letter into the Atlantic and looked at the solid white pill sitting on the chair beside me.

‘Goodbye cruel world’, I thought as I swallowed it.

I drifted away peacefully as the boat rocked casually. Death is peaceful. That’s something they don’t tell you - just how good it feels. That finally your time is up. Total bliss.