Waving Not Drowning

His lips move almost imperceptibly. It's difficult to make out what he's mouthing as he sits on the top bench of the bleachers watching rec league coed slowpitch. Sad eyes, beautiful skin, somewhere around 28. It's a hot, humid, oppressively sticky late summer eve and he's wearing a navy blue hoodie over a button down shirt, dark blue jeans, and innocuous sneakers, not too flashy but still sorta hip. He's clean, healthy looking, with good hands. He's perched, sitting very still; contained, but not tense. No air of anxiety. He could be high, maybe medicated. Every time she walks back from the plate to the bench they make eye contact. Hold it a beat too long. It's his eyes. Blue, clear, curious but not in a disarmingly strange way. He's watching the game, attentive to every pitch, every swing, hit and miss. When he looks away it's not with embarrassment or discomfort. He simply shifts focus while staying completely present. There's a languid, felin...

It's a long walk up the property back to the kitchen from the boathouse. Adam feels every step pulling on the back of his calves. Ten years they've been here, long enough for the cottage to become their second home. He never saw himself as a guy with a cottage. A guy with a rich wife, 2 kids, a summer home, a winter chalet and four luxury vehicles. But here he is. For now. The divorce is finalized in October. It's been a long time coming. Caroline separated years ago. Separate vacations, separate beds. Separate bank accounts. Hard blow to his ego, being a secondary bread winner. Intoxicating at first, being well tended. Having a sugar momma. Meant he could write all day. Play his guitar, do yoga, make movies. Then the kids. The shift in focus. Work dropped off and suddenly he's Mr Mom. No more all night jam sessions, spontaneous dates with Geoff and Gord. Or Caroline. There are expectations that come with marrying money. Accountability. Towing the party line. Commitment...

Should she or shouldn't she. This is the debate raging in Gemma's head. Unreasonably loud and quite combative for an inside voice. Like two angry lawyers duking it out in between her ears. She tries to focus, tune into her rational self, the side of her that can big picture it, think of the long term effects. The sleepless nights, logey mornings, the bloating and gassiness, maybe even cramping and nausea. What fun. It's just a piece of cake. A quadruple decker strawberry shortcake with a cheesecake bottom drizzled in a caramel crunch with pirouline crackers on the side. Ridiculous, she knows this. She wouldn't have to eat it all; she could have a bite. Or two or five or who the hell is she kidding. Gemma would inhale it in one sitting. Unbuckle her belt, untuck her t shirt, lean back in her chair and let it all hang out. At what point did she become Homer Simpson, she wonders. Yet she can't say no. At least not without playing this scene out over and over in her hea...

At what point was this a good idea? Andre is beyond yellow school buses. When they said they would provide a bus up to the cottages he assumed as most adults over 40 would that it would be a bus. Like a Greyhound. Not some broken down Ken Kesey tricked out I just wanna live out of hostels while backpacking through Europe getting as high and laid as possible type of deal. No air conditioning on the hottest week in history and shock absorbers older than god. Less forgiving as well. It's like riding a jackhammer. His sciatica is going to put him out for the whole weekend. So much for tubing and jet skis. He'll be the old man on the ground with his legs bent over a chair, doped up on Tylenol 3's and pot. For this he paid $300. An adult cottage getaway, the fifth wheel, the lone wolf among two couples and who knows who else is showing up. He'll be relegated to the grill or the kitchen, cooking for the group because that's what's expected of a chef. A busman's hol...

Hey, you remember Danny in Grade Seven? Man, I'm blanking on his last name, something with a C, I think, I dunno. I just keep thinkin about that time we all stayed late to paint that mural and Mr. Johnson told us half way through we had to white it out and start again. Poor Danny man, he just lost it. You don't remember? He started hyperventilating and stomping his feet, screaming, No! No, no, no, no, no! Threw his paintbrush on the floor, ripped off his painting coverall. Scared the crap outta the poor Grade Four kids. Mr. Johnson tried to settle him down but Danny flipped out when he touched him, started screaming this high pitched wail. I never hear anythin like it, you know? Gave me goose bumps. Then Mr. Matthews came in and tried to quiet him down and that's when Danny bit him. Right through his shirt. Punctured the skin on his forearm- we could see the blood start to seep through his white sleeve. Then all hell broke loose and Michelle and Natalie started crying, me a...