Waving Not Drowning

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  ...

There it was. Lying in the corner of the silver dish on the side table next to the couch. Right next to the ridiculously expensive dog comb she convinced Todd to buy that neither of them ever use. No wonder she couldn't find it. Why search the place they sit next to every day for hours on end as they stare straight ahead like zombies hypnotized by the 40 inch flatscreen. They don't even share the couch like they used to. Claire curls up in the lazy boy nestled under the green and red cottage throw which always smells faintly of woodsmoke and Off while Todd splays his limbs out like an Irish wolfhound in repose, engulfing the seven foot long sectional and ottoman. They bought that piece on layaway with her bridal shower money and took four years to pay it off because every time they went by the store to put money down they walked out with some other random appliance or side table or hand dyed silk and wool mix Persian rug they couldn't afford, didn't need but fel...

Seven, eight, nine sneezes in a row. It's becoming painfully orgasmic and the woman sitting next to her just got up and shifted seats, throwing Connie the most withering stare. It's the chocolate. Really good dark chocolate makes her sneeze. Repeatedly. Generally not this uncontrollably- three seems to be the magic number- so now she's wondering what the hell was in the bag of leftover chocolate chips she bought from the bulk store because this is insane. Peter used to make fun of her, taunting her with incredible hand poured organic chocolate squares that he'd flaunt in front of her like a carrot on a stick. His idea of foreplay. Get her all worked up then giggle wildly when she was tearing up and  sneezing a fit. Painfully uncomfortable. Connie never understood Peter's sense of humour and that was a major nail in their relationship's coffin. You're too sensitive, he'd say; so dramatic, so intense. His detached, emotionally disengaged observ...

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...

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...

Bob and Donna don't quite know what to make of her. She's not Christian which makes them nervous and wary. That's the first thing they ask her as they gather round the oak dining table for breakfast. Ella arrived unannounced with Casey late the night before. Casey was a troubled young man when they first met him at the week-long retreat. Filled with demons, broken and in need of healing. A tragedy, really. Bob and Donna felt it was their divine responsibility, nay right, to lead him back to Jesus Christ, their holy saviour. Donna took him aside two days in and told Casey he was cursed, his whole family were cursed and destined to live out a life of great suffering and punishments unless he accepted Jesus Christ as his personal Saviour and learned to atone for his many sins, sins he wasn't even aware he had committed but which were cast upon him by the shortcomings and failings of his family; godless, adulterous, thieving heathens. That's how curses work, she explain...

They set up a skype date so they could discuss their next move. With the time change and opposite schedules getting an actual conversation happening was more convoluted than string theory. So ridiculously complicated. By the time Alistair is home from work Zara is fast asleep. On days when Z is up at the crack of dawn, it's 3 am Al's time but he's either a few glasses into his wine and poring over a script or exhausted and too stressed to sleep. God forbid he's entertaining company.  It took a while but Z knows nothing good comes from late night-early morning texting or phone calls. If he's up and sees her online he can call her, thank you very much. The last thing she needs is to skype him and see some other woman tangled up in his sheets over his shoulder. Sheets she bought and broke in with him on Easter weekend last spring. What a difference four months makes. His contract got picked up and the work is pouring in. It's biblical in scope. Work begets work beg...

Four more days til he can get back to her. The deal is never longer than two weeks. Thirteen consecutive nights alone and even that is pushing it. After 4 years of long distance commuting Tom is feeling things start to implode. They're creating problems where there aren't any for the sake of conversation. Conflict creates contentious communion. Magnetic poles attracting and repelling simultaneously. It started so well. Big dreams, incredible connection. Flurries of fleeting layovers, insane exhausting weekends, extended overnighters,  the eventual week-long live-in. From the beginning they know what they're in for. Bicoastal breakdown. Tom vows he'll never do a long distance relationship. Elaine doesn't see it coming. An unexpected hello turns into a twenty minute seduction. His eyes on her arms, her lips on his neck, their fingers intertwine, legs interlock and time stops. Clothing litters the floor, sheets are soaking wet, an entire suite is consumed by their bodi...

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...

The humidity is rising, she feels it in her hair, on her skin. A thickness weighing her down, heavy in her lungs. Sticky air, hard to breathe. The salt on her face- her own, the ocean's- commingling, a different acridity. Stings. It wasn't supposed to be like this. Bitter harsh pointed words. Communication breakdown. The devolution of care. When cross purposes collide old ghosts rise from their graves, decaying, conjured by the inability to acquiesce. Ancient rage wreaking havoc on the living ones they've left behind. Bury your dead, bury them, leave them lie. Incinerate them, blow them up into smithereens, scatter the ashes to sea. The fetid stench of death and anger dragged behind like an anchor mooring them in separate seas. Hurricane's coming and neither has the wherewithal to change course. Seek refuge, find safety, weigh anchor, head for home. Chaos reigns, self preservation at all costs overrides one for all and all for one. The shift is so minute; if either side...

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...

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...