I could never get the gesture out of my head. Not the features of a face, of some lost expression, because I don’t think there was one; one that was supposed – for me – to be remembered. I actually think that there was simply just the white hand in the foreground on a darker shade of white background. Or was it grey on a darker grey? It doesn’t really matter. All that matters is the image that remains, how all I could see, all that I can remember, is the movement of a hand, the slight wave. And it is the wave alone, on its own, that torments, that chokes me. For I do not know whether the wave was loving or mocking. I am tormented because something deep inside, at the pit of my stomach, won’t shield the answer. I know the answer is buried deep inside. Has been there all the time. But my stomach will not share this information with me. Out of selfishness or out of protection, out of loving or out of mocking? I just don’t know. All that I know is this. That the wave forever lingers, every day; haunting, prickling, bitching. I tell you what, that fucking wave’ll be the death of me. How I would love to get the chance, just one chance to get my hands around that cowardly hand, throttle the very life out of the little shit, rid myself of these feelings so deeply rooted in doom. Then the sun shines in and all shadow fades. I pour a fresh glass, this time the toast – drink to forget.