November 27, 2017:

God it was such a soap opera.

Who was sleeping with who, who wanted to be sleeping with who, who were breaking up, who were cheating, who had who else waiting for them at home.

Likely the most prominent triangle was me, my GF, and the guy who loved her so desperately.

On a Friday near the end he and I took off for Sounion. It's not like we were enemies. In fact we were pals, we'd done a radio show together for years, and I'd stayed at his mother's flat in London at the start of the trip. His tragedy was to fall ass over teakettle for a very beautiful girl who at that moment was eyeball deep in self-exploration. What did it mean to be beautiful? What kind of power did that give her over men? What kinds of relationships were appropriate for her at that time of her life? And — pretty centrally in my opinion — what were her feelings for me? What sort of future did they imply?

So we grabbed a bus and took off together to explore a different kind of beauty.

He was drunk, and he looked like Charles Bukowski. Hair and stubble, slurring, bloodshot. The ride was gorgeous, the site is gorgeous. We found Byron's graffito in about thirty seconds. Jaw-droppingly gorgeous.

I dunno.

I felt for him. And for her. And for me.

At home in a few weeks I'll break it off. Perhaps the most difficult thing I've done in this life. He and I will lose touch almost immediately.