Oh dear, dear little Wien wein. That is what I called her. I doubt I have told you my story of Wien wein, yet another girl that broke my heart. The only difference from the women in my life prior to and post her is that I had my longest relationship with her. She found me out and adopted me when I was alone on that beach. She slept with me and worked with me and ate with me. Who could have asked for a better companion. She liked books too. She once even saved me while I slept.
In retrospect I have always desired a woman more if she found me out. It may be that only a fraction of the women I seek out are my type. But then I have had a jinx. In the last decade I have always met a desirable woman during a window of three weeks, usually just preceding continental and temporal separation. This was the first time the three weeks did not apply.
She was young and pretty with beautiful hair. I had seen her about but never paid her any attention. She had her brother as companion. They were both very young. But as soon as he was old enough he was drafted. We lived in a small camp on the beach, on the south side where it was uninhabited. Shortly after I arrived one of the other sides of the island was invaded. In smaller populations you can imagine the demographic affect of an invasion.
She was now left alone in the camp with only me and very few others, all males. This was the time I really noticed her, alone and nowhere else to go she would wail outside my hut. I offered her food and company and she slept in the warmth and security of my arms. She followed me everywhere that even casual passers by and even the visitng Admirals of the naval fleets made note of this bond.
I used to work mostly under the cover of darkness on the sands where thunderous waves pounded. It was the time of the northeast monsoons when the winds blow southwest over Myanmar and over vast ocean before reaching us with moisture laden heavy clouds. So heavy that by the time they reached us they were spilling themselves and drenching everything in their path. It only made the surf pound harder. The huts of thatch heaved under the extra weight and the mud floors oozed out water when little pressure was applied. Clothes and other fabric that were wet never dried, and those that were dry were dank from the humidity. Anything that was left without washing and in prolonged disuse grew fungus, including our toes.
I would tuck her in my sleeping bag making sure she was dry, warm and not hungry. Once I was away working through the storms, I heard her calling out, getting drenched. She didn't want to sleep alone so she kept with me for while. When I shined my light behind me I would track her through her distinct tracks in the sand.
Some months went by and then it was time for me to leave and I could not take her with me. I don't know if she would have coped with my wandering lifestyle, something I was not willing to give up. And I had been on the beach for half a year now with no electricity, phones, or any modern luxuries; the only luxury I had had was an old radio I had commandeered on which I listened to Shakira on Radio Malaysia.
Soon after I left I had a near death experience that kept me from returning to the beach for almost a year. The first chance I had I went back to find her. It was wrong of me to expect that she would wait for me. She had moved on, child and all. But she had not forgotten me, only distanced. I went back to work on the beach and continued exploring new lands, I moved on, again.
C'est la vie !!!
