There is a saying that water cuts through stone.
I am no mountain of a man, but I wish my heart is a delicate pebble.
Perhaps it’s the piercing breeze that kept my mind clear and alert, though my hands grew numb and my feet wobbled.
The wine had failed to drown my thoughts, yet I refused to remove the bottle from my mouth until the contents were gone.
The carton was almost empty. I wonder how many more fountains of sickness can my pebble heart take before it erodes? How many more restless nights of searching before I can accept the truth?
I wiped my mouth and reached for the last bottle.
Instead, my hand touched something soft. A moppy dog looked up at me with the bottle in its jaw, wagging its tail, ready for a game of fetch.
Before I could free my poison, the leech tugged at the dog’s neck violently to retreat, and the woman apologized on behalf of her dog.
She went on to suggest that perhaps a bowl of soup might do wonders for the broken heart than ten carts of that stuff, and that she could use a little help closing the restaurant anyway since it was a losing business and she will be leaving the country soon.
I did not know what to do and just nodded. Her face was reticent, her attire casual, and I could not comprehend any further details other than she might be a social worker or a suicide prevention helper.
Do I look that desperate?
The dog seemed to sense my weariness, and saved the catch game for later.
It was tomorrow when I found out that the woman was a trick of the sea, and my stony heart was no more.
Lettuce was panting beside my feet, and as my great-grandchildren drank their lettuce soup while loudly rolling their eyes at the retelling of the same fateful night, I put my hand to where my heart is, and felt its gentle waves beating.