Waving Not Drowning

Every day at 3 pm he gets into his car, a 2006 Toyota Corolla 4 door sedan in  a sunfaded navy, plugs in his gps, turns the radio on to Jazz FM and buckles himself in. Even though Curtis is the only person who ever drives his car, he checks then rechecks and adjusts his mirrors, just in case they've shifted over the course of the 8 hours the Corolla's been parked in an underground secured employee only parking lot. Monday through Friday, Curtis drives the 38 kilometre return trip from his 1970's- era one bedroom walk up apartment on a quiet one way dead end street in the city's east end all the way across town to the hip new enclave of design warehouses where he works as a program developer in the land of web design. A drone tethered to his computer in a medium sized start up company where he manages to disappear into the fabric of his surroundings. Milquetoast amongst a sea of brightly coloured walls, hyper lit screens, geometric patterned floors and dynamic, gregariou...

Something about the timbre of her voice gives Pete a rash. That itching he gets at the back of his throat at the beginning of an allergic reaction, this is how he feels whenever she comes on the radio. Mary's voice is the aural equivalent of tree nuts and strawberries for Pete. Not a good thing considering the public radio station he listens to religiously has moved Mary over to the morning show from 5:30 to 8:30 am. The one upside is that she only does the traffic report; it's timed to ten minutes past the thirty and the hour so Pete can physically remove himself from the sound if he's in a room or if he's fast enough, mute it entirely. Still, he is plowing through his Benadryl which is making him rather sloppy at work. Coworkers wonder if he's developed a sleeping disorder. Maybe he's high from the night before- with Pete, no one can really tell; and as no one can see his hive-covered esophagus, Pete's not entirely convincing to his coworkers. He's tho...