The Last Kiss

And then there was the wave. They had been around the world so many times. They had woken up in houses and haciendas and chateaus. They had woken up hungover and smelling of grease and perfume. Their passports were full. Their memories were so full they had all forgotten about the time, in Latvia, when a gypsy’s monkey stole Creed’s T-shirt, Dion’s sunglasses, Nate’s mandolin, DJ Struntz’s Luger pistol and then made a beautiful sculpture on their veranda. They had all forgotten about the time, in Hong Kong, when CJ and Damien were invited to play tennis against the governor’s twin daughters for the key to the city.They had gone on a wild adventure for the sake of art, or for the sake of adventure itself — no one was quite sure which — but who would have thought that the wave would have found them after they woke up in a mud brick hut? Who would have thought that a wave was the best thing of all?

They had come to Mozambique because it is Mozambique. “We shall go to Mozambique…” Joe G. said to Dion, who was reclining on a Tappezzeria Rocchetti sofa, one cloudless Long Beach morning as he finished the last of his espresso con panna. “…and we shall surf.” He was looking at an old World Book, embossed in real gold, and something about the letters danced. M-O-Z-A-M-B-I-Q-U-E. Dion nodded and called Nate, who called Creed, who called CJ. There were no longer questions. Only adventure. Only art.

Mozambique
Mozambique
Mozambique
Mozambique
Mozambique