Waving Not Drowning

If she leaves now, there's a good, no, a GREAT chance he won't see her. He's buried in his phone with his headphones on. Perfect. She's got her back to the door, her hoodie's around her waist, toque pulled low, massive glasses obscuring her face. She can grab her bag, scoop up her laptop and just GO. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. Mel? Is that you? Fer crissake- why do people say that? She shared a bed with him for two years, six months and 13 and a half days. She picked gingersnap crumbs off his chest while he slurped Earl Grey tea, and read racing biographies to him out loud for hours on end. They'd stumble over each other in the bathroom half naked, jockeying for space in the mirror. That beard. His cheap clippers tripping the fuse. Every single time. No one groomed longer than Alan. He's really not sure it's her? This from the man who mapped the freckles on her body with a Sharpie. Who tattooed her name on the inside of his bicep s...

There's no joy here. That's what she thinks when she looks into his pale blue crystalline eyes. A coolness settles around him. Tentative, guarded, quiet. Or mastered. Half a dozen of one... It didn't take her long to realize he was something other than what she was used to. L'autre, as they say. No wham bam thank you m'am How YOU doin' Jesus woman, you make me weak in the knees sorta bloke. Even his eyewear is sedate. There's a half smile occasionally withdrawing into a smirk. Unknowingly. A learned reflex, a laugh out loud withdrawn too soon. At this stage of the game, it's bred in the bone. Restraint. Observational engagement. Small ripples run deep. There's an undertow drawing her in but she can't tell if it's her own volition or an actual tidal pull. Full moon fever. He ebbs and flows. She wants to ride big waves. There's a quality of grace and wonder, a generosity of spirit that spills forth from  her every cel. ...

Sometimes she lies. Just a bit. Smoothes over the rough spots without breaking his heart. Or betraying hers. The sin of omission. It's second nature now. A slight smile, an imperceptible nod followed with a hmm or an uh huh. He doesn't notice most of the time. Or so it seems. The level of disconnect is tacitly agreed upon in the silent storm that brews between them, slowly picking up steam, until the gale force of indifference blows them apart. He listens halfway. She stews passive aggressively. Mind like a steel trap, remembering every single word, thoughtless aside. Half-hearted kiss. There is hair growing out of his ears. His eyebrows are unruly. This repulses her. His skin is losing it's tenacity around his already weak chin. All she can see is his disappearing profile. It used to be his smile and ever so slight gap toothed grin would leave her a wet mess on the floor. The imperfections turned her on to  no end. He was rough around the edges, soft in the  ...

He sends her naked shots of himself in various poses.  A cowboy hat.  A duck faced selfie.  Three day stubble on his somewhat defined chest.  She's stopped opening his texts, changed her settings so that they don't flagrantly expose her to public curiosity while in transit.  All of this is unsolicited.  They bought a house, Grey and Ashleigh. His girlfriend of almost two years. The latest development in the ongoing saga of will he or won't he.  Lucy knows that when the cock shots reappear Grey's experiencing an existential crisis; Relationship woes of a sexual nature. Hardwired to wander, a child of the affair, son of a libidinous creature. As sure as the mooon's pull on tides, he gracelessly self destructs.  There was a time Lucy took the bait but she's learned:  Never step in the same river twice.  Their last friendly coffee talk had Grey musing over the battle of his rapaciousness versus his girlf...

One by one they went away. She stopped reading his messages, left emails unopened, dumped files, deleted histories. Pictures, videos, playlists, all gone. Wipe the heart drive clean. It's taken months, almost a year, really. Now she doesn't roll over at 4 am half asleep and grab the phone charging on the shelf above her head. She's letting go by blowing things up. Just short of annihilating- it's not in her nature to leave without a trace. In this day and age she knows that's an impossibility. She will always exist in some form, some code, some file, texts, download, screen grabs, half opened bottle of hairspray in the corner of the back shelf. She's eradicated any visible trace of them together. Contact lists, addresses, important dates, favourite links, wish lists, all of it wiped clean. Slowly she's getting herself back. The coffee shop on 4th two blocks west of her, once their, apartment is returning to the rotation. As is the regular Wednesday night mee...

She pulls on her thickest socks, wiggling her toes, hanging over in a forward fold, nose to knees, letting out a long, low sigh. Mornings. She could fall back into bed right now and pretend this day isn't happening but then what? Where to then? Eventually the sun will come up and things will have to get done. A shower. Breakfast. Walk the dog, shovel the steps, do the laundry, return his messages that have been haunting her for the last three days. She has no idea what to say, how to tell him she is leaving. It's been an incredible time, more fulfilling, exhilarating and wholly encompassing than anything she could have possibly imagined and she's got to go. There is nothing left except the inevitable fall from grace so it's time to disengage and disappear. Part of her wants so badly to hop in the car, race over to his attic apartment with the fake panelled walls and red shag rug, propel herself into his arms, legs wrapped tightly around his hips and tackle him onto the ...

The thing is, he's right. But so is she. She frightens him now. That's new. Whatever love and intimacy that existed between them has been worn down, rubbed out from months of struggle. She's turned inward, collapsed on herself. He stands farther off, eyes to the floor. They'll sit for interminable amounts of time not speaking, avoiding all contact while sharing a bed barely built for two. From great beginnings come heartbroken endings. It started slowly, imperceptibly at first. Disagreements over petty things, arguments exploding out of thin air over inconsequential actions, a misunderstanding, a missed call, a late reply, an extended pause. She became combustible, a volcano erupting, annihilating entire landscapes with molten lava of language. He was a wall, stretched thin in every direction, undulating with her waves of emotion crashing down onto him, over him, drowning him. Now they are on opposing teams, enemies sharing camp desperate for some sort of armistice. It...

Every year it's the same thing. Last minute panic. Late night runs to the big box stores, trolling the second hand joints, even scouring Craigslist for used costumes. Every year Don swears he'll be better organized. He comes up with the best ideas November 1st. Come the following October, he can't figure out where the time went. An interesting, unique costume idea for a 6'5", 28 year-old is harder than one would think. Don's vowed to never repeat the same idea twice. Well, Marla vowed. On Don's behalf. To be honest, Don could care less about the whole shebang. The free candy is awesome but he stopped trick or treating when he sprouted to 6'2 at 12 years old. Mrs. Hamm reamed him out as Frankenstein that year, calling him all kinds of unrepeatable names, accusing him of being an adult in disguise. No matter the protestations she steadfastly refused to believe it was little ginger Donny from three doors down. It didn't help that he couldn't remove...

"How do you fight with a girl, huh? Tell me, cause it ain't right, you being like that with her. It's different, you know. I wouldn't take it, no way, that's straight up wrong is what that is. You need to shake your head, that's what you need, bro. No way you treat a girl like that. How you think she feels, hmm? You treat your sister that way, defensive and downright mean? Yeah, you're mean, bro. You dismiss her and don't respond. You disengage. That's fine with me- I get it, you know? But to her? No. Passive aggressive and you call her out on it? Pfffft, come on. I mean, I've listened to you go on and on for the last what, 8, 9 months- but this anger, man. You have some spooky anger issues in play and honestly- I love you, man, you know I do- you need to check that because the two of you make each other crazy and she's a good woman, dude. You know that. But you shut her down and check out and then you play with her, always play. Enough with...

A certain stirring lingers deep in her gut. Nat can't shake it but for the life of her she can't name it, either. Hour after hour of plugging straight through and now she hits the pillow at night and wakes up oblivious to her surroundings. At least she's sleeping. Deep, dreamless exhaustion. If only she'd strung herself out like this months earlier she'd have saved herself the anixiety of insomnia and long dark nights of the soul, counting down minutes til sunrise and the dawn of a new day. Another cycle completed. The world keeps turning regardless of how mired in stasis Nat is. There's hope in that, she thinks. She charts the shape of the moon. Full, half, quarter, crescent. On cloudy nights she draws the curtains and drowns herself in Rachmaninoff, headphones cradling her ears on the pillow. When sleep won't come the music lulls her into a semi catatonic state. Nat's not sure it's restorative or meditative but it drowns out the interior noise whic...

"How can you do that? How can you go and do that? I don't- I can't." Daphne is sputtering now, apoplectic with rage and despair. "I mean, really. Really!?! You ate the last piece of my cake . My BIRTHDAY cake. MINE. I saved that piece specifically- you ate the corner piece with my name written on it, how could you possibly think that was meant for YOU?" Daphne collapses onto the stool at the island, exhausted. She's spent every last ounce of her energy and the full weight of the loss is hitting her hard. She has been dreaming about this cake all day. All week. She had portioned it out so that come Friday she could indulge, finally, in the best part of the entire last year. A custom four tiered coconut banana dark chocolate layer cake with a hint of mocha and edible flowers. Edible flowers, for crying out loud! Pink and purple and yellow, her favourite colours. She had searched high and low for the right bakery to make it exactly the way she envisioned it...

Gerry insists on wearing the green cords, his favourite purple Ninja Turtle t shirt topped with his cape. Lorna doesn't really care; Gerry's worn that cape almost every day since his birthday in April. When she puts him to bed after reading The Velveteen Rabbit four times and they sing You've Got A Friend in whispers twice, she turns the light off and the constellation glows a faint green on his ceiling. She listens for the shift in his breathing, when it drops in cadence, deeper, slower. That's the moment to extricate the cape from under his pillow. Enough time to throw it in the wash and get it dried, folded and placed back where it started before she passes out from exhaustion, generally around 10. It's been a long four years. He's a great kid but this was never the plan, solo parenting. Now, first day of school in the morning. Weeks of planning, dry runs, deciding on what to wear again and again. The cords, the sweater, the jeans, the superman pajamas. Alway...

He places a cool cloth across her forehead. She's burning up, in and out of sleep, struggling. It's breaking his heart but he's so grateful to be here. His guitar lays at the foot of the bed. Gibson Les Paul Standard Gold Top, the one gift she got right. He played to her for hours, all her favourites, singing in that voice she loves, making up words if he forgot them. She didn't notice. If she did, she didn't care. She probably only hears him in waves anyway. She comes to then slides back under, the way tides ebb and flow at the full moon's passing. She's leaving him, this time for good. No more slamming doors or hanging up the phone. No cars speeding off down a dirt road, taillights fading while he stands alone in the ditch wondering how he's going to get back home. So much anger. Rage. Passion. Intensity. Disappointment and fear defined her until she exhausted him and her body in the process. Millions of cells, billions of molecules passing in the air ...

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...

He's smoking again. It slid back into his life so incrementally, so casually he can't pinpoint the exact moment the scales tipped back to the life he left behind. He's off the gluten, off the meat, even managing to get in some running. Well, jogging really. Still, full speed ahead. But the smoking, that's the killer. Literally. It winds it's way into every aspect of his being, who he is, how he feels about himself. He was, is, will always be a smoker. A dry drunk, well, this is the battle with nicotine. The trail of smoke curling out of his nostrils, floating up across his brow, slightly furrowing as his glasses fog over. Ember glowing, crawling up the shaft towards the crook of his index fingers lightly bent, wrist cocked just so. Iconic images of silver screen matinee idols, cowboys, and rebels without causes. Men. Strong, virile, masculine men with Marlboros and Camels and Galouise. Players, DuMaurier, Native Spirit. Rolling papers and west coast bud rolled in wi...

Jesus christ woman, I can smell you from here. I don't know what you've been doing but whatever it is you need to take a shower. Or four. Pronto, capiche? You know I love you but seriously, what have you eaten, a dead baby? Holy dinah, darlin' you are not fit for public consumption. Oh! Oh oh oh oh! Put your shoes back on. PUT YOUR SHOES BACK ON! For the love of all that's holy and I include among that our glorious, sacred, if somewhat left of center, occasionally anachronistic union, put 'em back on your feet and then take them off in an airtight, sealed chamber where they shall promptly be incinerated. Can you not smell that? How can you NOT smell that. How can the entire neighbourhood not smell that? It's worse than the worst ridiculously over priced cheese you could imagine. Worse than that runny Belgian cheese you brought home at christmas! Phew. They let you train in those? In a group? You didn't gas the entire class with the stench? Tell me, I'm s...

Jeff!!!! Veronica calls out from across the street. She's going 20 kilometres an hour, easy. He's going 30, opposite direction. It could be Jeff. Sure looks like him. Full kit, shaggy hair, out of the saddle, clipped in and clocking her from two blocks away. Veronica considers herself a commuter cyclist. She rides a fancy ass road bike but she doesn't ride-ride. You know, like in a peleton or with a club; or for 5 hours on a Sunday morning or all of Tuesday afternoon while skipping out of the office to "work from home". Jeff's a Rider, a true Roadie. Quit triathalons to focus on the bike. Hence why she doesn't sees him anymore. It must have been Jeff. Who else would hone in on her from so far away? He recognizes her, knows her style. He should, she's the reason he rides. He built this bike, bought the frame for her 36th birthday and then helped her design it's entire configuration from Campy's vs Shimanos, fixie or flip flop. The spent hours ar...

It's no bigger than a fruitfly but something has lodged itself square in the centre of Mike's eye and he's immediately blinded, ripped apart by searing pain, fluid gushing out of his left tear duct. And there goes the ride. A fantastic start to a much needed and longed for spin and blammo, a knat takes him down. He is undone by a speck of an insect. Knocked him on his ass. Mike unclips, frantically blinking his eye, trying to find the position where he's least in pain. Eye open, lid shut, both feel like there are shards of glass scraping across his eyeball like rusted out windshield wipers on his old Civic. He unscrews the lid of his water bottle and pikes forward from the waist, tilting his head to the sky like that wizened old crippled deaf man who rides the evening bus . Glug, glug, glug. Mike pours the ice cold water across his eyes, trying to keep them open so whatever has burrowed it's way inside can be flushed out. This is crazy. Mike can't believe the pa...

Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Can you imagine that like every minute of evey day? Right? It would drive me crazy, I couldn't take it. It's 24/7, all the time with them. All. The. Time. It never ends, I'll be 65 and they'll still be needy, still be calling me, asking for money, needing help with something or other. I can't do it, I just have no desire. And your body, oh my god, do  not get me started about what having kids does to your poor body. Your insides fall out. They do. Everything in there gets all stretched and saggy and just wrecked. I've seen women who've had kids- two! It's not like I'm talking about 4 or 6 or a litter like that kate and Jon woman or the octomom- and they're just a mess. Not pretty. I'm too vain, way too vain to put myself through that, I'm sorry. I know, I'm 34, ok, I get it. Technically I still have time but that's the thing, right? I do not want to be some ancient old mom collapsed on the side of the play...

We just don't understand each other, I guess. What do you want from me? Erik was detached, barely repressing his thinly veiled irritation with Lindsay. It's been going on for months. The same argument, back and forth, circling down the drain, an endless spiral of  miscommunication. So decayed it's coming apart in pieces. Wow. Just wow. Lindsay has no other words. A year of hoping against hope he'd come around Lindsay is realizing that it's over. Erik is in it for Erik and Erik alone. And the booze. Lindsay's fallen apart physically, her body shut down months ago and she's muscling through day to day trying to stave off her own implosion. The wilful self destruction of their lives. So this is the way it ends, not with a bang, but a whimper. The end of the what ifs, the could be's, the happily ever after, like peeling back layers of newly formed skin on the scab that just won't heal. They're too far gone to find the horizon and get back to an ev...