Waving Not Drowning

It's a double date. Esther and Jonathan have been seeing a lot of each other over the last three months. Izzy and Rico have been married for 2 years but had a 12 year engagement. One of those. Esther wondered if they'd jinx it by tying the knot- fall apart and divorce within the year. So far, so good. At least from outward appearances. Esther's nervous- she likes this guy but knows he's a hard sell. Izzy and Rico are her oldest, dearest friends. They've been there through all of her men, for better or worse. Mostly worse. It's rare that Esther does the meet and greet so soon into a courtship but this  one feels different. He's kind. Funny. Conscientious. Short. Ok, there are some cons weighing against the pros, she knows this. But he's the best thing she's met in months, maybe even years. Esther slides onto the chair next to the window, leaving Jonathan with the aisle seat. Awkward seeing that she has to fold her legs in on herself like a praying man...

It falls to the floor before she can grab it, tumbling through her fingers and bouncing across the tile before cracking and leaking onto the rug in front of the toilet. Too much glass in here: glass shelves, glass bottles, glass mirrors. Her heart stops as the scent rises up into her nose, wrapping itself around her lungs and lining the inside of her belly. Her lips swell and palms sweat, she starts to tear up and get weak in the knees. Alex. All over her, inside of her, on top of her, away from her. He insisted she have her own scent. He wanted to buy her perfume so they spent days trolling drugstores and department stores, spraying, sniffing, coughing, choking, laughing, hmm'ing and haa'ing trying to encapsulate their connection in some sort of alcohol infused watery potion. Late nights leaning into her neck, he'd lift her wrist to his face and breathe her in, all the way down to his toes. They'd compare little paper swatches, over breakfasts of coffee and half-pans o...

I wish you'd let it go. Really. It was months ago, for crying out loud. Had I known at the time you'd  be hanging onto my every word like it was carved in stone, coming down from the mountain, I would have shut up before I started. It was just a suggestion, anyway. A casual remark, something I said in passing. No need for you to be so literal. I really had no intention of stirring up shite like this, regardless of what you may think. And look, it's fine now. It's almost grown back in and I would venture to say, it's healthier now as a result. Wouldn't you agree? I mean, all of that processing over the years catches up to you and really, let's be honest, we're not young- the whole chemical construction changes with age,  and hormones- just look at when the grey comes in, it practically stands straight up and screams LOOK AT ME, I'M HERE! Not that it's a bad thing, the grey- I'm not saying that, not at all but I just think one has to deal with ...

It's a bit too loud and the music is obviously being streamed from a Best of '90's satellite station specializing in one hit wonders and annoying dance remixes. Marky Mark, Jesus Jones. There's no empty solo seat so he places his narrow metal clipboard on the massive communal re-purposed barnboard table surrounded by chrome and naugahyde rotating stools cemented to the ceramic tile. He has ten, maybe twenty, for a proper cup of coffee and this is his preferred haunt. A welcome anomaly in the slowly gentrifying hood, tucked in beside old peeler bars and run down taverns. Spread out around him is a mess of actor writer types, permastudents, with scripts deliberately scattered, silently entreating attention. Laptops and smartphones far outnumber the mugs and pastries. He adjusts his utility belt, places his cappuccino on the rough hewn plank, pulling his gun to the left so it clears the backrest. A sudden squawk erupts from his radio. Heads swivel towards him, curious, war...

First guy I like turns out to be a murderer. Not a good sign. I mean, it's not like I knew beforehand or anything- that would make me an idiot, right? That's the problem these days. There's no re-con. I mean, how do you check people out? You can google them, sure, but if some dude's got a regular name, a common, everyday, dime a dozen name, then you're inundated with thousands of hits and links and pages and pictures and...it's too much. Sharon sighs then takes a bite of her double dark chocolate cake pop smothered in strawberry icing and a long pull of her fancy coffee drink slathered in whipped cream. Jenna is convinced all that sugar is going to make Sharon crazy. Cuckoo for cocoa puffs crazy. Every day it's the same thing, some cake on a stick or elaborate french pastry and a ginormous whipped cream coffee. That's a $10 snack right there. Jenna's no idea how Shar pays for it all but who's she to judge. If it keeps her head screwed on straight...

There's a quiet sadness to her body, folded in on itself, chin tucked, hair parted and held hostage with a jewelled barrette and plastic comb. Rose is written on the side of her paper coffee cup in strident black sharpie, a reminder or a banner. She delicately picks away at her muffin, working her way through the body of it, leaving the top for last. Always delaying gratification. She still wears her wedding ring. It's been 7 years. She feels incomplete without it, disassembled. Her daughters have given up. They live in Victoria now. Rose tells herself that's why they don't call or visit. The time difference, the flights, her 300 square foot apartment. The money from the estate sale is long gone and disability doesn't afford much. The tea and muffin are a decadent treat, a splurge better spent on real bills and groceries but here amongst the writers and students, the sea of stroller bearing mothers, she disappears in full view. There's comfort in being invisible...

Fifty five minutes for a 5 minute errand. He just would not shut up. Heather was leaning out the door, bracing it open with her foot, about as subtle as a truck, trying to leave the store. He would not stop talking- about himself, his career, his pure potential. Heather's mentally calculating how late she's running for her 1 oclock appointment, trying to manifest a way to transmogrify herself via an imaginary telelporter to get to Chelsea in time.  Just Shut Up. An hour ago she was mildly smitten. He was a doppleganger of her ex, same ginger hair, dimpled chin, light blue eyes, perfect bow shaped lips, rare on a man. After twenty minutes of monologue all resemblance evaporated. His hands were small, nail beds torn and ragged, his neck showed premature signs of aging and a distinct lack of physical activity in his life. What was she expecting from a computer IT guy, not like he rips himself away from his motherboard to bust out a quick ten miler or 5 hour ride. All she needed wa...

A cup of coffee, all Frank wants is a bloody cup of coffee. He doesn't give a shit where it's from, Sumatra, Peru, Ethiopia, who cares, it's not like he's the UN for cryin out loud. Just a freaking cup of coffee, black, no milk or cream or soya or what the jesus, almond milk. What the hell is that. Who drinks milk made from almonds? How do you even milk an almond? When did everything get so bloody complicated. All Frank wants is his cup of morning coffee to help shake off the bourbon fog. Hot and black so he can slug it back with his smokes. That's it, that's all she wrote. Coffee that doesn't cost him four bucks a shot. Whole neighbourhood's gone to ratshit since Jimmy's Place closed. Thirty two years Frank counted on Jimmy's for a decent cup of joe, corn beef on rye, bottle of Blue, Maker's Mark when he was feeling flush, and time on the table where he didn't have to hustle frat boys to get a game in. Easy living. Now these bloody hipst...