Waving Not Drowning

The texts keeps coming. Have tea with me. You should come meet me, really. You'll enjoy it. I'm good company, honest. We can talk physics and life on Mars and maybe even thoughts on dessert. She stares at the phone. The incessant glass chime sounds then sounds again. She's tempted to turn it off but then fears she may miss something of importance. Not necesarily from him, but from some one. Anyone else. Why is it so difficult to care, to muster any interest in anyone other than herself these days. She doesn't even find her own company that compelling right now. Stacks of fiction and periodicals line the floor beside her bed, stacked five high on the shelf above her headboard. So much to ingest, so many words, ideas, information. Read me, see me, take me in. She doesn't want to spend an hour of her life over tea with some young attractive physics student who used to lift weights for a living. Talking about space and the final frontiers as he angles a way into her pan...

It's been one of those weeks. Lindsay's been under deadline stress hell and Erik, well, Erik's just been under. More than usual. The 45 year old bottle of scotch he brought back from the working slash golf weekend is three quarters spent and their present plans for house hunting have fallen by the wayside. Things have been coming to a head for months now and just when Lindsay thinks she's reached the precipice, a subtle shift happens, so slight it barely registers yet somehow they manage to navigate themselves back onto the path. What path remains to be seen. That's the question, this gnawing obsession of a need for direction. It is slowly killing them, insidiously, from their insides out. Lindsay's been skipping periods, stress eating. A patch of hair has fallen out from behind her left ear. Alopecia areata her doctor says, possibly a stress related disorder, or maybe due to low iron or actually pulling her hair out, which Lindsay may be doing, unconsciously. S...

Lindsay stared at the half drunk glass of white wine in the flimsy plastic cup and stepped back, her outstretched arm slowly retreating back to her hip pocket, as if burrowing into a protective warren, hiding from voracious predators. Except the danger was a 2003 Pinot Grigio Erik brought to Shelley's 40th and knowing how Erik gets at celebratory functions, this would be the first of maybe a dozen or so cups he would plow through over the course of the evening. If Lindsay tried to keep pace she'd be flat on her ass within the hour. Erik could drink. Maybe it was his Irish/Scottish/crazy Viking heritage that programmed it into his DNA because it was beyond anything Lindsay had ever encountered in a partner before. Sure they liked a good bottle of wine together but half a bottle on their first date over of a shared plate of curry fries at the local somehow evolved into two bottles a night, three nights a week in order to help them both unwind from their difficult days at work. Th...

Oh darlin, don't mind if I do. Sidle on up to me and whisper sweet nothings in my ear. We can trip the light fantastic, rough and tumble in the ruins of our shared miseries and erect a monument to our mutual suffering. I like the way you talk, full of dreams and wonder, hope and contradictions. Turns me on, makes me believe I'm not so crazy, not entombed in a life of failures and whatifs. We woulda been great together before the wars, the bad decisions, the how about another, c'mon just one more days. I like the way you move, your swish and giggle, all gossamer winged grace. Untethered. Lemme fly up to meet you, unmoor myself from this hell we're anchored in. One more dance, darlin, just one more dance. One last long turn on the floor. The endless farewell, a lingering kiss, brutal embrace, desperate distraction before the sun comes up and carves us into grotesque shadows of our once glorious younger selves. Don't look at me, just bury your head in my chest and wrap...

All Anthony wanted was a few bananas and some peanut butter. His kingdom for Nutella but he wasn't hedging his bets. He was slow going, still half in the bag from last night's commiseration session with Isabelle gnashing and wailing about Kev's new girlfriend. Anthony gets it, he does. Lord knows she put up with the Great Heartbreak of 'o8 with him. A solid year of despair and self loathing. Surviving the war. They forgot to get breakfast fixings and it's going on noon. His stomach was beyond rumbling, it was a full blown orchestra with kettle drums pounding. It's a fine line between nausea and hunger. He realizes the sound isn't emanating from his intestines but rattling the windows from College Street below. Christ almighty, the Resurrection parade. Thousands of devout Catholics lined up 5 bodies deep, celebrating the Easter holy days. For six blocks police cordoned off both sides of the street and locked down traffic. He'd never get out his front door...

So much red wine. Dead soldiers litter the kitchen floor and drip  precariously from the counter ledge. Happy birthday to Ryan. Every year's a bloody miracle. He spends so much of his time trying to annihilate himself that making it to next weekend is never a safe bet. He can't even remember who was at the party. Janet, Su, maybe Rick and D, but Nat's still asleep on his floor tangled in last night's stockings so obviously she made it. It's his Jesus year. Never thought he make it past 27, the year all great players die. Not that would deign to compare himself to a Jimi or Janis or Jim or Kurt. Fuck, 33 is really old. It's time to man up, put on his big boy pants and deal with his shit. That's Nat's voice in his head. She's one to talk, a mess of tequila soaked heartbreak on the rug. Damn. Careful not to light the stove nearby or she may spontaneously combust. Christ, how did they get like this? East side piss poor wanna-be Sid and Nancy. He was goin...

Vodka and soda with lime. Or lemon if you're out. Well, he was out. Scotty had been out for the last two hours and no matter how many times he reiterated that information, he was met with the same stunned stare. A full three second stutter of disbelief, a la Foghorn Leghorn. Some of them actually repeated the question. Multiple times. You're out of lime? You're out of lime. It's closing in on two am and this 40th birthday bash in the tony Forest Hill home has been in full swing since 7:30. The rich, white, beautiful folk are well into their cups. Five magnums of Ketel One, Grey Goose , 4 bottles of Patron and countless flats of Stella down, they're moving into wine now as all the glassware is dirty. Serving Rioja and Cab Sauv and a mystery Austrian white in champagne flutes and margarita glasses while Chef and his sous frantically clean  rentals in the kitchen. This is the gig that never ends. It's a contest to see who can drink the most and still stay charming....