Waving Not Drowning

"I think that went well, don't you? Not too painful, I hope." Nothing's quite as inspiring as this man standing before her, flop sweating, blissfully unaware of his awkward courting. He means well, she knows this; but "not too painful" still involves a whole lotta work on her part. Oh, that's mean, she thinks. Bad, bad Julia. Be nice, play well with others. She glances at her phone and knows if she can extricate herself now there's still time to hustle home and pour herself a tumbler of Red Breast before she has to call it a night. Finally satiate her palate. It's clear to her. She likes her own company the best. She did discover a hip new local, though, populated with an unexpectedly queer positive crowd kitted out in matching plaid button-downs and ironically sloganed t shirts: I'm OK, You're OK. Their server was a close talker, gregarious, maybe high, maybe happy, with a pop culture awareness that disappeared at 1987. The ...

She hits the down button. Two hospital admin types, young women in almost stylish outfits, the ones afforded on entry level salaries, wait on a car going up. The elevator arrives, doors open, she steps on then realizes she's going up. Force of habit, she says aloud to no one in particular, pavlovian response. The two women sort of smile as they study the floor, suddenly intensely awkward and private. She gets louder as she backs out of the car. Doors close and she hovers her finger over the already illuminated down button. Right, just did that. It's quiet here, far from the madding crowd. Emerg was busy, mainly the geriatric crew. A few indigent and drunk and disorderlies draped over chairs, hanging out of gurneys, buried under sheets and gowns, moaning, rambling incoherently. It's the large-and-in-charge paramedic night: 4 teams of doughy young men stand sentinel with their wards, buried in paperwork, bored with the hurry and up wait logjam of daily deliveries. ...

Three glasses in a week. One on the floor, smashed to bits on the cracked grey tiles. Chunks of grout rolling like pebbles, lodging between her toes. The second in the sink, a slip of her hand and down it goes, shards sinking in a sea of sudsy water. The third glass, her favourite tumbler, the one with the faded Police Technology logo, all the way from from her alma mater three provinces over, 20 years ago. Caught the edge of the counter and just like that... It mysteriously appeared one day in the cupboard above the fridge, hidden behind a set of twelve black and pink flower china coffee mugs. Garish eighties decor unearthed. A heavy beer stein, good for half a pint of cheap draft- Laurentide or Labbatt 50, maybe Maudite if they were feeling flush. Probably picked up at a Goodwill or Value Village by one of the myriad exchange students who frequented the house before she set down roots 4 years ago. Digging up bones. She sits at the kitchen table, crumbs from this morning'...

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  ...

Sharon stumbles over her uniform balled up on the floor, a tangled knot of grey and blue polyester, slick with oil and smelling like poverty. Too tired to hang it up or toss it over the kitchen chair she peeled it off, layer by layer. A trail of desperation and struggle. She crawls into bed defeated, exhausted. This schedule will be the death of her. Three hours of sleep and no end in sight. Not now, anyway. Somewhere down the line, he told her. Put your dues in and you'll see. Trust me. Sharon's got no time for trust. She's too tired to play the long con. Twenty one or slots. No dealer's choice for her. Everyone's got a finite amount of time, you just don't know the count. The only thing she can count on is no sure thing. Twenty three years, she's no further ahead then when she began. A hand out, a leg up, a free ride. If she'd only said yes. Just once. The right guy at the right time, the right place, the right job. Opportunity kn...

"Pick a card, any card." Kevin flared a deck in front of her with incredible ease and grace, so studied that it appeared the fan of laminated cards was a natural extension of his hand. "Not now, Kev, ok? I'm not in the mood." Kevin stood motionless for three seconds then with an exaggerated ruffle he collapsed the accordion of cards into a perfectly stacked deck, his gestures so fluid as to be unnoticeable. Sleight of hand. It was awkward between them. Tight, rough. Never date a magician, this is permanently etched into her brain now. She used to love it, the mystery, the tricks so remarkable she squealed with shock and delight. A total turn on. Talent gets her every time. Now it's one big irritation. A constant itch he needs scratched. Look at me, look at me. Did you see that, can you believe your eyes He's worse than that actor. Almost as bad as that stand up comic she slept with, the one who screamed like a girl. If Tracy wanted needy she...

Pick it up. Put it on the table, back where it belongs. Get the cloth, wipe the floor, wring it out, hang it up and start again. It's just a glass. No big deal. Millions of grains of sand fired into liquid molten lava, compressed, blown, turned, shaped. Cooled, polished, delivered. Destroyed. It's just a glass. A flimsy, delicate vessel entirely unsuited to the task at hand. You need the bottle. Amber hued or olive green. Half an inch thick. Weighty as you wield it in your hand like a weapon. Tilt the head back, grasping the neck as if to strangle the liquid out of it. Pouring, elbow raised, eyes closed, mouth open. This is no time for decorum. Decency has left the building. Drink, drink, drink To the last drop then let it roll Off the fingers, an extension of bone and skin Cool comfort.