July 17, 2019:

I took her picture in the hotel.

Amid her whining about wanting to see Lou Reed and her incessant indecisive search for shoes up and down the island I felt my misery was expiation for the grief I'd caused her by declaring premature finality many months before.

It wasn't.

We'd broken up for the right reasons. We'd gotten back together for the wrong ones. My misery was the consequence of error, compounded by her petty but vicious need for revenge.