I had a strange dream that night; I dreamt that I was at Esmeralda’s having my cards read. At first glance everything seemed normal, but then Esmeralda walked in wearing my wedding dress, which looked terrible on her because on a good day she looks a little something like an elephant seal. (I was secretly very happy about this.) Her arm fat was oozing out of the top, sides and back of the dress, and her boobs here sitting somewhere around her eyebrows. I was wearing my pyjamas. I looked down and noticed that the floor was covered in soft white beach sand. Her Monitor lizard was sitting on the floor next to my foot eating a hamburger, which was very disturbing because he was doing it with a knife and fork. Esmeralda began turning the cards over, but every one was the same. The Jack of Hearts, the Jack of Hearts, the Jack of Hearts, the Jack of Hearts, the Jack of Hearts. I asked her if she still saw the blonde male and she said ‘No’. She saw a man with dark hair. I told her she was most definitely wrong, because he was supposed to be blonde. Then she got angry and told me her cards never lied and he was dark haired and had dark eyes and was holding the moon in his hand. I don’t really know why, but this made me very angry and so I grabbed a glass of water and threw it at her and then all her candles went out and I woke up.

I sat up in bed as if it had shocked me; the towel was still wrapped around me, and as soon as my eyes had adjusted to the bright light, I looked around the room. My first thought was yesterday's last thought; I must apologise to Damian. I glanced in the direction of the lounge, but he wasn’t there. I called out his name, no answer. I assumed he was outside, the sun was streaming through the huge windows and the day looked glorious, with no sign of last night's storm. I started climbing out of bed but stopped dead when I felt something crunch under my hand.

I didn’t need to look down; I knew exactly what it was.

There was a note on my pillow.

Queasiness gripped me, my recent experience with notes had not been a very positive one, and I had a sneaking suspicion that this was just going to reinforce that sentiment. I called out for Damian one more time, hoping… still no answer. I had a feeling I knew what the note was going to say. In fact, I was positive I knew.

He was gone. And I would never see him again.

There was absolutely no need to read the note, so I got out of bed and tossed it on the floor. Why did I even care if he was gone? I didn’t. Damian was just some stranger that I’d met and felt sorry for. I stomped over to the coffee machine and turned it on aggressively, as if that would somehow make me feel better. The kettle started to bubble and I began making myself a strong cuppa, but all the while, I could feel the note staring at me. Staring at me with its beady little paper eyes. I ignored it and walked over to the couch for my morning caffeine hit. But the note began to peck at the back of my head with its sharp, folded paper corners.

Oh who was I kidding, of course I wanted to read it…

I’m really sorry, Lilly.

X D

Irony had clearly come back for seconds…just four little words once more. But there was something very different about this note. Something so seemingly insignificant, but to me, it was huge. A tiny letter, that when I looked at it, made my heart race.

X.

A kiss.

I stared at the X on the paper. Why would he have put one there? Did he want to kiss me? Was he just being polite? What did it all mean, or was I reading too much into it and this was just the way he signed off all his letters? Why was this even bothering me? Why was I analysing a single letter on a note from a stranger?

AND…Why won’t this incessant narration in my head turn itself off and give me a chance to breathe and wake up?

I turned the note over hoping he’d left me his number, or an email address or something. He hadn’t. I suddenly realised that I didn’t even know his surname, so I couldn’t find him on Facebook. Or could I?

I went straight for my phone. The second it was in my hand I logged onto Facebook and typed in D A M I A N. The reception was slower than a dead sloth and the anticipation was killing me as I watched that irritating thingy going round and round and round at snails pace. Finally, it connected and about 50 pages came up. Too many! I tried to narrow the search and put South Africa in as a search perimeter, now there were only 30 pages. And so began my hunt.

There were a few profile pictures that at first glance looked promising; a skull and a plain red block jumped out immediately. But neither one was him. I kept going until my eyes began to sting, but he was nowhere to be found. My heart dropped into my toes, and I was gripped by this terrible realisation -- I would never see him again. It also dawned on me that this was the first time I’d logged onto Facebook and not gone straight to Michael's page. So I quickly did, not that I was expecting to find anything new. But I did. He'd updated his status...

Life works in mysterious ways.

Was I hallucinating? I read it again just to be sure.

Life works in mysterious ways.

What the hell did that mean? I’d never known Michael to say anything deep, meaningful and *profound in all the years we’d been together and now he was speaking like the Dalai Lama. Like some Guru Swami Sage person, spouting out pseudo-wisdom like a bleeding fountain. Bastard. He’d probably downloaded some App that delivered meaningful quotes to his phone every morning. I desperately felt like commenting, but what would I say?

Let me take some of the mystery out of it for you; next time I see you, I'm going to kick you in the nuts.

What ‘mysterious ways’ was he referring to? The mysterious way that he’d left me at the altar, or the mysterious mystery of the missing husband on honeymoon? I skulked over to the window angrily, it really was a beautiful day and I had absolutely no idea what to do with it. I reached for the hotel guide and read through the list of available activities. I wasn’t outdoorsy, so 'no' to all the tennis, water activities and anything involving being lifted into the air -- I was scared of heights.

There was a Spa, which sounded more doable.

So I slipped into my costume, grabbed a towel and a sarong and went out into the sunny world.

***

Four hours later, I decided that this was officially the most pointless day of my entire pitiful life and everything that I’d done so far just made me feel depressed, lonely, miserable and pathetic.

1. Breakfast -- initially I was excited, the large buffet had practically called my name, especially the waffles, the pancakes and the bacon. But three Cappuccinos and three thousand calories later, I looked around the room and realised that I was the only ‘party of one’.

2. The Beach -- every minute and a half some cute, giggling, cooing couple walked past me holding hands and drooling on each other. They wallowed in the water, latching onto each other like co-dependent Koala bears. They cuddled in the sun and whispered sweet nothings. They made me sick.

3. The Spa -- same thing. Couples, couples, couples all clinging onto each other like they would die if several of their body parts weren't attached at all times

4. The pool -- same as the beach, but without the waves.

Eventually I prowled up to the reception desk and demanded to know what else there was to do in this God Forsaken Hotel -- okay, I didn’t say that last part out loud, but I was thinking it, so that counts for something, doesn’t it?

After a few curious stares, the kind of stares that seemed to say, shame I wonder where her husband has gone, I was handed a large pile of flyers.

Botanical Gardens -- Too many flowers.

Elephant Rides -- Too smelly.

Temple Tours -- Too many Temples.

Grand Palace Tour -- Too Grand and Palacey.

Shopping at the market -- Mmmm, now that was more like it.

In fact, that was exactly what I needed, some retail therapy. And everyone knows that the shopping in Thailand is supposed to be awesome. Let’s face it, there’s nothing like the smell of new clothes to make you feel better about your sad life, a pair of new shoes probably feels the same way as a hit of crack to an addict (especially if bought on sale). Nothing can beat the sound of your slip being printed, and signing on the dotted line -- because it means that whatever is in that bag, is now officially yours. When people tell me money can’t buy them happiness, I always tell them they just haven’t found the right place to shop yet. New clothes are like an aphrodisiac, they put you on a high of happiness, and the purchase of a new handbag can be pure ecstasy.

With this in mind, I jumped into one of those tricycle boxes and headed for the market -- the holy grail of all my future happiness. And when I arrived, it didn't disappoint.

I’m not sure there’s an adequate way of describing the market that fully encapsulates its atmosphere. Certainly, I had never seen anything like it before. The thousands of stalls packed together tightly, the bright colours, the exotic smells of cooking hanging in the warm air and the sounds. Your senses are assaulted around every corner, either by the sight of a stand selling multi-coloured sarongs, or the smell of a stand selling pineapples and spices. The atmosphere was electric, alive, and it hummed with the possibility of bargains and purchases-a-plenty. I almost didn’t know where to begin…almost.

I immediately gravitated to a large collection of colourful beach bags. Like someone under the influence of a hypnotic spell, I drifted towards them in an almost trance-like state, eyes wide, mouth open and salivating. My eye was immediately drawn to a large beach bag made from bright pink, purple and gold traditional Thai fabric. It was exquisite. But as I was about to reach up and claim the precious thing, a tiny little woman appeared out of nowhere. Without asking she grabbed me by the hand and started pulling me towards the back of the stall.

“Come, come I take you to backroom.”

“I beg your pardon?” What the hell did she mean?

“Nice bags, nice bags there.”

With those magic words, my fears were forgotten. The little old lady pulled back a curtain, glanced around quickly and dragged me inside. I had officially found the buried treasure. I was standing in a tiny room I could barely move my arms in, but it was covered from floor to the ceiling with some of my best - and usually very unaffordable - friends; Prada, Gucci, Louis, Salvatore, Fendi, Chanel, Chloe and Dior. I didn’t know where to look, where to turn, what to touch. It was all so dazzling and beautiful. Now, I’m not usually an advocate of fake anything, but after scrutinising them all, there was simply no visible difference, and they were all so pretty and colourful and cheap.

Ten minutes later, and after much deliberation, I walked out with five handbags of happiness and a new understanding of how it all worked here. From that moment on, every stall I went to, I asked for the ‘backroom’ (and they all had them).

Hours - and a Christian Dior watch, a pair of Gucci Glasses, another three bags, a Fendi purse, a Louis Vuitton bracelet, a few shirts, skirts, bikinis and sarongs and two pairs of Manolos - later, I was finally done. I was buzzing. High from adrenalin, endorphins and handbags. Damian, Michael and that wedding 'thing' were distant memories. The only thing on my mind right now was my growling stomach. I needed to replenish my depleted reserves, and fast.

Being naturally suspicious of things like salmonella, food poising and necrotising fasciitis -- That's the flesh eating bacteria. I once watched a show on the Reality Channel where a guy's leg was literally eaten by his own body, and since then I've been paranoid every time I get a scratch -- I chose my restaurant very carefully. I decided on a criterion; it had to be inside, have nice décor, waiters who weren’t wearing shorts, air-conditioning and needed to serve something other than seafood. Sadly, nothing was meeting the criteria. So I jumped into another Tuk-Tuk and in my best Thai (Google translator was officially my new best friend), I asked to go to the best restaurant in Phuket.

And what he took me to was beyond my wildest expectations. It was a restaurant called Baan Paa, which was located on a small cliff overlooking a deserted beach. The building looked more like a traditional home than a restaurant, and was surrounded by lush greenery. Walking into it, you got the feeling of being lost in paradise. I was led to a table on the balcony overlooking the pale white rocks that fell into the calm, turquoise sea below. It was perfect.

Co.in.ci.dence (Noun) A remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection.

I’ve heard it said many times before that there are no such things as coincidences, only fate pushing you towards a predetermined destination. Orchestrating your life in such a way that everything works out just the way it should.

Out of all the restaurants in Phuket. Out of all the hours in the day. Out of all the people in the world. With all of those variables and many more that needed to combine in perfect synchronicity and unison to create this very moment, despite all of that…

Damian walked past me.