Waving Not Drowning

Charlie always says no. Confidently but not with so much force as to raise any flags. Direct, make eye contact, no embellishing, then move on. Sometimes the interviewer will elaborate, a subtle attempt to casually redirect, asking the same question with other language to provoke a different response. Charlie's been at this for a while, she knows the drill, sees it coming miles before the neural synapses have even fired in the doctor or nurse or social worker or psychiatrist sitting in front of her. On a third attempt to question her once, the triage nurse started speaking uncomfortably loud and very slowly, as if Charlie was either deaf, mentally challenged, a foreign student or all three. Maybe it was the hapi coat and chopsticks in her crazy dreadlocked hair, who knows. Her asian phase has long passed. Regardless, the blue eyes, fierce red hair and freckles should've been a dead giveaway. The problem with a technologically advanced medical system in the largest city in the co...

How could you do this to me- how could you? Don't just stand there looking down on me, with your mouth agape, like a fish dry drowning. You have irrevocably changed my life, you know that, right? You've killed me. I'm sure of it. I'm lying here crumpled, broken. I can't move my legs. I have no feeling from my belly down. This is terrifying. What have you done, what have you done to me? How did you not see me, I am right here. RIGHT HERE.  This hurts, you know. I know you can't hear me, I realize this now. But I am doing my best to stare at you through my half closed eyelids in this state of semi consciousness. I am trying to intuit this information to you through my slowly fading spirit. Every iota of my being is focused on trying to move, to speak, to scream or burble, any sound will do. The pain. Oh this is ridiculously painful and numbing at the same time. I was right there, beside you, behind you, ahead of you, in your rearview, your sideview, your windshiel...

Kerrie keeps an ancient empty bear-shaped glass peanut butter jar on her desk and fills it with bits of paper. Torn up scraps of old scripts and print outs, those free post it notes from charitable foundations that show up uninvited in the mail, a passive aggressive attempt to guilt her into a donation. Every day she writes down what she is grateful for, a good thing, a happy thing, something that makes her heart sing, and stuffs it into the jar. Kerrie then screws the cap back on tightly, capturing moments to prevent them from disappearing into the ether. A lightening bug lantern of ephemera, harnessing positive thinking. At first it was easy. Within a week her jar was overflowing with the minutiae of day to day occurrences: a long, low sunrise, happy dogs on the bike path, unexpected encounters with an old friend and spontaneous coffee catch ups. Clean sheets, dark chocolate, fresh dates with walnuts. Found coins on the sidewalk, an interesting article, great books,  a new haircu...

She makes him grin. He makes her smile, then a sad ache reverberates from her heart and travels out the ends of her fingertips, shooting invisible tendrils of longing across the continent reaching out to reattach themselves to the core of his being, his soul, his desire for her, as if they had never been pulled apart. Loss is a funny thing. She surfs waves of emotion trying to catch the top of the curl with precision timing so she can ride the wave in for hours, revel in what seems like days, until it dissipates into a foamy brine on the shoreline. On days she can't catch the wave or gets sucked into the undertow and crashes onto the rocks below, tossing and turning in the roiling surf, those days take forever to recover from. He's been gone for months, but never really out of her mind. The wake is half over but she lingers. It's too soon to say goodbye yet way too far past welcome home. She'll pick up a book, put on a record, stroll through the streets of Chinatown and...

On the fourth floor of a five story ancient walk up deep in the bowels of Chinatown, she climbs out of her single bed, scattering the dust on the linoleum as her feet hit the floor. She pads the twelve steps out her room, through the galley kitchen and into the cubby of a washroom. A sink so small she fills her hands to wash her face then douses herself while leaning over the tub alongside it, so as not to spill water all over the subway tiled floor. Various Chinese male voices can be heard barking at each other from above and below, tones shifting, guttural stops and moans; she can't tell if this is a good thing. The F train rattles overhead sending delayed vibrations up through the foundation. Sirens buzz on and off, cutting in and out; a jacked up Escalade rumbles through, stereo shaking the shampoo bottle perched on the narrow window shelf behind iron bars facing the world's smallest tub. She likes it here. Small enough to cocoon in but not claustrophobic. She feels safe he...

You only get one first time. One first kiss, one first love, one first heartbreak. The first job, the first car, the first home, the first kid, the first  fight. The first make up session that leads to the beginning of the first step forward into the first part of the next phase in your first grown up, accountable adult relationship. That moment of realisation is a first, too. Your first trip, your first show, your first train/plane/ bus/ car/ pony ride. You can't un pop a cherry, un pit a peach. Your first failure, first loss; the irrevocable damage caused by the first betrayal that turns each and every subsequent betrayal into a number increasingly greater than that monumentally iconic First. The first time you cause someone deliberate, earthshattering, soul crushing pain. Intense shame, overwhelming gratitude. The first of the last goodbyes. First miss, first reunion, first communion. First aches and pains, first forgettings of any new firsts because slowly, steadily, you've...

Just a quarter mile up the road you'll see it- the most beautiful sight you'll ever set eyes on. The way the ground swells up in a purple blanket of flax, gently swaying like a spent sailor knee deep in his cups. Oh this countryside, this road: wide open yet all encompassing. Close your eyes, drive for an hour, and you're still dead centre, hugging the yellow line. Where the sun sets high-fiving the moon, a cosmic baton pass of grandiose heights. Big sky country. Up and out and still, there you are. A speck of dust, a miniscule, microscopic organism waving in the wind while the clouds roil and rumble shades of orange and pink not found in your box of crayolas. Hot and dry and unforgiving. So cold skin splits and tears, breath crystallizes before the thought has left your mind let alone your mouth. So much space, so many miles of great wide open. Keep going, then go further. Eventually mountains, the ocean and shoreline appear but the same thought skips over and over, stuck ...

That night when we were twenty one and you had left Patty and I left Mark and we borrrowed your mom's van and we drove as far as we could go on seven dollars and forty five cents worth of change we cobbled together from various coat pockets, bottoms of purses and couch cushions, and we drove as far as we could til we reached half a tank of gas and ate soft serve ice cream cones with a chocolate dip, wandered ancient general stores, spoke secrets out loud and promised each other the world- that was the night you asked me to marry you and I said yes but really meant but not now because I was young and we were crazy and I was terrified of the reality but in love with the romantic idealism and thought that yes would somehow magically solve our life's problems, which seemed monumental and all consuming and would irrevocably change the rest of our lives. That night, that's the night I play over and over in my head, every day, every minute of every day, since I saw you on the stre...

Peter stood at the checkout stumbling, frantically searching his pockets, patting his hands rhythmically up, down, and across his chest, then over his bum, flapping the inside of his jacket like a coach on first signaling the batter. Reluctantly he stepped aside so the very old, very stooped Italian woman clad head to toe in black could go ahead. She had a cart full of rapini, 8 potatoes, 5 cans of Italian crushed tomatoes, packages of imported pasta and 3 lemons. Peter wondered if she was eating alone. He was trying not to panic. Not only was his billfold gone but his keys were, too. Think, Peter, think. The cashier, a quiet, comely Irish redhead who married into the Italian grocery family tosses him  a sideways glance, curious irritation in her brow. He's done this before. Last week he left the keys in the car, running, parked on the street during rush hour in a tow away zone with his laptop open on the passenger seat. By the grace of who knows what Peter returned fifteen minutes...

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...

It's the back of her hands. That's where she sees it the most. The papery, delicate, sunpocked skin, wrinkled even  in repose. They look so old. Amanda never thought of her aunt as old, not even when she was a little girl. It was always Aunt Claire, the cool aunt, the fun aunt, the one with the long straight hair and groovy headbands, the huge record collection, jars of solid perfume and real wooden clogs from Holland. They spent endless hours hiking back roads, climbing trees, making up songs while skipping flat stones across the hidden pond on MacKenzie's Bluff. Claire taught Amanda about boys, let her experiment for hours with her makeup. The Lancome gift bags that came with purchase always ended up in her knapsack after a weekend visit. If it wasn't for Claire, Amanda never would've come to appreciate the importance of moisturizing year round or have mad money stashed with a spare key, hair elastic, and condom in the secret pocket of her wallet. The twenty dolla...

Oh, how I loved you, every single piece of you. I ached for you, dreamt of you, reveled in the way you smelled and tasted and delighted me. I became transfixed by the thought of having you, if only for a moment. The rush, the sensation of an overwhelming eruption of taste and satisfaction. Umami. Dripping down my fingers, spilling from the sides of my mouth, licking my lips, sucking every last morsel from my fingers. Then it all went wrong. The pain. Sleepless nights, doubled over, rocking like a child in the fetal position, knowing, deep down, that it was over. It had to be, for my own good. I kept trying to dip back in, just a taste; a friend with benefits, every now and then, trying desperately to convince myself it wasn't as destructive as it was. But I knew. My body was telling me- I had to let go. Walk away, kill my cravings. For you, your soft, sticky, sweet and chewy, cinnamony, lightly iced goodness. Oh gluten, you devil in my belly, why did it have to end like this? I thi...

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....

Om Mani Padme Hum. Compassion. Or, Om, The Jewel in the Lotus, Hum!  Needled that into her skin, forever marking herself, one of seven rites of passage. Lots of moving forward colouring her landscape, some fading, others bleeding into the edges, all of them clear, concise markers of specific moments in her life. Some are beyond explanation. Over the years they have altered their course, and now represent something so far removed from their original intention she can no longer explain them to new lovers or curious ladies in the locker room. They are what they are. A road map in technicolour and black and white fading into muted navy blue. There's always a moment of sadness before she starts a new piece, a farewell to the virgin, naked skin soon to be irrevocably altered. Capturing this time, this place, this heart, this desire. Forever. Or until she sheds her skin and generates a new one, untouched, unblemished, and begins again.

Sunday mornings are meant for sleeping in, except when Caroline's mother comes barging into their bedroom and demands that the girls Rise and Shine and Get Ready for Church. Louder than a bullhorn, that woman. Church. Ugh. The only downside to sleepovers at Caroline's house was the Sunday morning church thing. Tracy never understood why she had to get dragged along. She was barely a house guest by that point, she figured, not some long lost, pseudo family member. If it was a Saturday night before bed, like Christmas Eve mass or something, sure, she could see their insistence. But getting up at 7 am on a Sunday morning after staying up til 4 with the Ouija board, conjuring spirits with a flashlight under the duvet? In Tracy's mind, this was torture. A bizarre form of weekend detention. She hated going to church. It always made her feel stupid, like she didn't belong. She never knew when to kneel or rise, or the words to the songs or what to repeat after the priest or fat...

If she keeps edging in, inch by inch, atom by atom, it won't feel so overwhelming. Head up, eyes on the horizon, breathing timed to her favourite waltz: in-two-three, out-two-three. She's up to her thighs now, that place where the curve opens up and wraps underneath her hip, as if asking to be caressed, enveloped by a pelvis from behind. Limbed Lego, locking into place. Her fingers immersed, the energy rising up her forearms, pooling in the crook of her bent elbows. Arms akimbo. She releases her shoulders and her heart opens to the sky as she leans back, arms wide, submerging her entire being, emptying her lungs. She is suspended in mid inhalation, pure potential, slowly expanding, ascending into wide open grace. Their bodies, entwined. Surrender.

Tuesday's special was breaded and fried Filet of Sole, two veg, mashed or roast potatoes, a cup of tea or coffee, no refills, and choice of either homemade rice pudding or green jello. Carey didn't know what flavour the green was, so he always opted for rice pudding even though he hated the texture. It felt like eating ants suspended in grimy porridge. Still for 5.95, he couldn't say no. You never leave food on your plate, that was how Carey was raised. Fifty four and his father's booming baritone plays on repeat in his memory: Eat your brussel sprouts, son. There's plenty of children starving in Africa, you think they'd leave food on their plates? They'd be licking them clean. I work my tail off in the yards so you and your sisters can have food on the table and a roof over your head. Your mother slaved all day in the kitchen to make you this meal, show some respect and eat up. You're not leaving the table until your plate is clean, you understand me? D...

You'll have to forgive me, I'm easily overwhelmed by the ladies, he says accompanied by a slight shuffle of his sole-worn boots, casually laced, tongues wagging like an overheated hound. It's pause for thought. Something she hadn't even considered, given his reputation. A long, tall drink of water- isn't that the saying? Cool, confident, quietly aloof, a smile for all he greets. That certain  sort of charisma that makes every woman feel special. Like she's the one, the only one who elicits that chemistry, that spark, that heartstopping, vibrating full body connection. He makes her thrum. Until of course the rumours start to swirl. Like a maelstrom, or Thunder Mountain, that nauseating hypnotic carnival ride at the summer fairs, the ones her mother forbade her from attending. Safety first! Piped in '80's hairband hits scream out of the tin can amplifiers as the makeshift bobsleds cycle round repeatedly, past the acne prone, apathetic ride operator too f...