Waving Not Drowning

It's almost time. Unless of course he's late. She's too tired to fight him anymore and really, traffic is insane these days. That's why she picks Aaron up after school and spends an hour and fifteen minutes at The Second Cup waiting for Chris to show up. The hand off. The passover. Wednesday afternoon to Thursday night, every second weekend, alternating high holidays. It used to be a hassle but they've settled into a quiet, comfortable groove. Surprising themselves at how much better they are as co parents than partners. Better friends than lovers. Taking the long way around. The same table every week, tucked into the corner on the club chairs with the noisy fabric. She smuggles in a juice box and over ripe banana but makes sure to fork out for a medium sized hot chocolate with extra whip to justify their monopolizing of real estate. It's prime time, this 4 to 5:15 pm slot. The same faces every week. She wonders where their passovers take place. ...

There's a faint birthmark on the outside of her right hip, a small, quarter-sized landmark, shaped like Africa. In summer months, it grows darker, deeper in colour, and the edges become more defined. Chris refers to it as the disappearing continent. Winter nights as Alice lies on her side, Chris runs his hand alongside the curve of her bum, extending his fingers as they drop into the deep valley of her waist, resting under her lowest rib, the tip of his index finger almost reaching her belly button. He memorizes the placement of Africa in relation to his pinky finger as it wraps around the crest of her pelvis. Like disappearing ink, it's faded to a faint shadow, an old tattoo whose ink is being reabsorbed by the body. Physical sense memory helps him mark it's placement: his hands know their journey. Alice's scars are a roadmap on her body. The thin line under her chin from falling off her bike at 7 years old, trying to ride with Duke alongside on his leash; matching rou...