Waving Not Drowning

On the first, third and fourth Tuesdays of every month Tracey finds herself in a familiar church basement meeting hall, sitting on a dented metal fold out chair, sipping on lousy but free percolated coffee from a styrofoam cup, topped up with two cubes of processed white sugar. On special days, like an anniversary or someone feeling generous, there are fresh doughnuts or a bundt cake instead of the usual variety of bulk store no-name cookies, like those weird ones with the stripes of black and white icing. Tracey avoids those unless all of the arrowroots and maple cream filled leaf ones are gone. Tracey never intended to make this a regular thing; it started 8 months ago when she saw the sign leading down the stairs on the way out of the bathroom. St Stephen's is on her ride home after Pilates class. She had to pee so badly that she stopped to use the church facilities. It was past dinner time, so when she smelled the coffee and freshly baked lemon loaf- it was a one year chip day ...

Aw crap. It's raining out. Rainy rainy raining, none of this spitty misty rain, nah it's full on rainy rain and dammit I wanted to go to the post office and pick up a bottle of that Riposso Italian red we had the other night. Dammit. Sheldon sighed, a long, loud, exaggerated sigh, fully voiced, making Corbin the Corgi twitch his ears back, as if flicking off an errant fly. To his credit, Corbin snuffled a beat then fell back into his deep sleep, dreaming of whatever it is that fat under exercised middle aged corgis dream about. Sheldon looked at the sleeping dog. Let sleeping dogs lie, right? Dammit, I should take the dog with me but he hates the rain more than I do. Aw crap, I hate the rain. It never, ever lets up, I swear. Sheldon deflated back into the couch, letting his head snap back on his spine like a marionette, resting against the sagging cushions well worn from hours of stasis spent sitting in front of the television, day in and day out. He should get rid of this couc...

I swear, if you do that, that's it, I'm walking away. It's over. We're done. You hear me? I said that's it, no more. Ever. We're through. Shaina waited. A long pause, at least five minutes, maybe more. To Shaina it felt like an eternity, the end of time. Lloyd stood motionless, his feet slightly toed in, kicking at an overturned bottle cap sticking out of the wet turf. He jammed his fists into his pockets, feeling the balled up bits of lint and dryer-worn Kleenex permanently embedded in the seams. Sweat was forming behind his ears- it was a weird thing that happened when he got anxious or upset. His palms stayed dry, no beading on his forehead or upper lip- just behind his ears. Lloyd could feel the trickling starting to run down the sides of his neck, staining his collar a darker shade of orange as his t shirt got wet. Dating was hard. For twelve year old boys and thirteen year old high strung, demanding, overly emotional girls, it was outrageous. All Lloyd wan...

Just when she thought it was over, the phone rang. Again. Laura has no idea how she survived before caller ID. At least they didn't have her address. Yet. It was only a matter of time, she knew that, but for now at least Laura didn't have to live in a shrouded studio apartment with her blinds drawn, music low, whispering to the cat. Stirring instead of using her Magic Bullitt dream machine blender. Keeping things quiet. On the down low. Maybe cable wasn't a good idea after all. Late nights spent in the hum of the blue light, listening to pitchman after pitchman excitedly expound upon the wonders of all sorts of things Laura didn't even know existed let alone were necessities evidently lacking in her life. She needed these things, all of them. Expanders, shrinkers, gyrators, prettifiers, organizers, educators, thingamajigifiers. Peelers, ricers, shakers, boilers, steamers, grinders. And on layaway, pre approved credit, easy to make payments spread over the rest of her li...

Everything and then some, she just wanted it all, and more. Insatiable, unrelenting, intense. He couldn't keep up. Again and again and again. Normally, Brent was in the driver's seat. He was the one in control, from the get go, feigning aloofness, being all gosh golly gee, shucks woman, you are somethin else, while sizing up whether or not the lady in play was going to remain detached or emotionally launch an anchor into him. Brent always played offensive slide, answered questions with questions, mirrored behaviour while remaining emotionally detached. Completely self absorbed in the moment while rigorously not getting involved. He figured as long as he said one thing off the top he could behave any which way from then on and not be held accountable. But she was different. Demanding. Fully engaged. Wide open, completely present. Raw. Scared the pants off  him and turned him on to the nth degree. So incredibly powerful, physically. He'd fantastized about being with a tall wo...

Here, try this. No, really- you'll love it, I promise. Seriously, it's like, insane how good this is. I added some coconut milk, lemongrass and extra ginger and I swear- I SWEAR- it's like, oh my god, I can't even tell you. Here, taste! Ruth thrust her hand out in front of James, the spoon dripping with some sort of thai inspired saucy creation of the day. James hated thai food, abhorred it, after 8 years of back to back undergrads where he subsisted on Ginger take out and bad hot pots almost every second night. But he loved Ruth, so it was something he sucked up and muscled through. Ruth lived to cook. She had more cookbooks than people had literature or socks and underwear combined. Food Porn, she called it. Every morning  Ruth would pore over a different book, planning out the evening or weekend special. Nothing made her happier than hours spent slaving over a hot stove, dicing tubers and weeds, soaking and sprouting and dehydrating all kinds of foul, or tasteless, i...

Darren stood in line with two jugs of Stoli, pajama pants half tucked into his Crocs, parka unzipped, hanging off of his doughy frame. His hair was really thinning these days and he was quite self conscious so he combed it evenly in all directions around his skull, in no discernible pattern giving the illusion of coverage yet upon closer inspection, one could see the patchiness, his scalp shining through in uneven stripes. It had started so well. Three years in culinary school, a placement at The Arc on Fifth and then total, utter, complete flame out. Self immolation, actually. Darren never really could cut it as a line cook, let alone a sous. He was a saucier at first but somehow found himself in over his head, working under a notorious drug addled control freak of a bad boy genius chef du jour, who quickly realized Darren's skillset was grossly lacking. Humiliated, ridiculed, then literally set on fire, in an incident that became known as creme brulee a la Darren, he didn't l...

Anthony liked big girls. Tall girls, the taller the better. Anything over six one, six two and he was over the moon, literally. Preferably blonde, and preferably amply endowed. Big breasted, wide hipped, full lipped, amazonian goddesses. Occasionally he'd settle for a shorter girl- five eight, five ten- which blew Mark's mind. Only in Anthony's world would that be considered a short woman. It's not like supermodel tall, bombshell built blondes were over populating their world. The odds weren't in Anthony's favour, which Mark tactfully tried to explain last Friday night at the pool hall. Besides, they seldom explored outside of their neighbourhood haunts so by now the two or three suitable options had been well worn and played out. To be frank, Mark was tired of talking around the elephant in the room. There's only so many excuses he could make to Anthony for the lack of action. He had game, oh boy, did Anthony have game. He could charm the paint off the wall...

Thursday afternoons are the worst. Simon can barely muster enough energy to put the kettle on let alone tend to the baby and the dog. Alex was teething now and a constant screaming, drooling, cacophonous ball of anguish. The dog on the other hand has finally reached his senior years and sleeps and farts 21 hours a day. Four days into the week with a day and a half to go and inevitably Simon falls apart, like clockwork. It's been five months of full time stay at home single parenting and Simon can't remember how he ever imagined this would make him happy or keep him fulfilled. He is the only stay at home dad for miles round, a complete anomaly in his sleepy suburban bedroom community. It's terrifically lonely. The yummy mummies ostracize him and the Filipino nannies and young British and Belgian Au Pairs don't even acknowledge his existence in the playground. Su wanted to stay home but she makes a full 45% more than Simon and her benefits are ridiculous. It only made sen...

Lindsay stared at the half drunk glass of white wine in the flimsy plastic cup and stepped back, her outstretched arm slowly retreating back to her hip pocket, as if burrowing into a protective warren, hiding from voracious predators. Except the danger was a 2003 Pinot Grigio Erik brought to Shelley's 40th and knowing how Erik gets at celebratory functions, this would be the first of maybe a dozen or so cups he would plow through over the course of the evening. If Lindsay tried to keep pace she'd be flat on her ass within the hour. Erik could drink. Maybe it was his Irish/Scottish/crazy Viking heritage that programmed it into his DNA because it was beyond anything Lindsay had ever encountered in a partner before. Sure they liked a good bottle of wine together but half a bottle on their first date over of a shared plate of curry fries at the local somehow evolved into two bottles a night, three nights a week in order to help them both unwind from their difficult days at work. Th...

Here's your picture, and he thrust his ancient flip phone with a built in camera  right into Dave's face as he rose out of his seat and headed to the subway door. Dave took notice of the guy peripherally a few stops previous but chose to ignore his tingly spidey sense in the moment. The guy's eyes seemed to be pointing in different directions which confused Dave; he was unable to discern whether or not he was actually the one being photographed or if the phone guy was shooting the 20 year old blonde in the seat ahead of him. Either way, Dave was now hyper aware of the constant electronic shutter snap coming from the odd man in the green parka with the orange tennis shoes sitting across the aisle. Dave tried to subvert his gaze and then felt utterly ridiculous holding up a gloved hand to partially obscure his face, like he was some celebrity feigning irritation with the papparazzo. Although he had to admit, the guy was really beginning to creep him out. The blonde must have ...

Not being able to see the forest for the trees. That phrase keeps spinning round and round Althea's head. She's too far in, too invested, and completely lacking perspective. Five long years of her life, her life's work, culminating in what, exactly? What is this project anymore? A piece? A presentation?An exhibit? A clusterfuck of masturbatory half assed Pollack wanna be, lost in translation, pseudo interpretive canvases or something resembling canvasses that are supposed to represent what, exactly? Exhale, just step back, go for a walk....this is her mantra. Althea owns more running shoes now than she did when she was a child in that other country, miles away from anything resembling civilization. The hours and days and months of her life spent walking, running, skipping, crawling through back roads and abandoned trails gave birth to this mess displayed in front of her now. Two days til vernissage, a week til opening and she wants to set it on fire. Burn this. Walk away. H...

If Robbie was a dog he'd most definitley be a Bassett hound. A very large, lumbering one with floppy ears and fin-like turned out paws and a nose as keen as they come. Cheryl loved Robbie, she did, but she misses the young, fit and feisty Rob- the one more akin to a Coon hound or German short haired Pointer. Active and alert, curious and on point. The man who would wake her up with great morning sex and then hustle her out to the gym or for a run where they would laugh and whinge and moan and end up at their favourite local indie roaster for smart coffees and splurge on a decadent pastry every now and then. Now that occasional indulgence is three times a day for him, the sex has all about disappeared and Cheryl can't remember the last time Robbie laced up his trainers let alone logged some miles. Recovery is hard, she gets that. It took nearly 12 weeks of solid rehab and physio to repair her achilles but she bounced back, she had to. Robbie on the other hand, took her down time...

Christ it's late. Damn- ow, fuck, damn, piss, shit.....who left the accordian by the door? Drew had had it with his housemates. Thirty four and living with a rotating menagerie of itinerant artists and gypsies: couchsurfing, subletting, disappearing in the middle of the night with three months back rent owing while abandoning their ailing geriatric cat type of housemates. Sigh. Why did he have to be the repsonsible one? Did you pick up toilet paper, Drew? Did you cash my cheque Drew? Can you not, cause yeah, sorry, it'll bounce. Yeah, ya see, it's about this girl and I lent her my rent money and well, ok, look, I'll get it to you but Thursday, ok? Thanks Drew, you're awesome, Drew. You rock! Six years in and he's the only original left in the house. He can list off the relationships that were born and died, sometimes an awfully painful death under that roof- Natalie, Melissa, Julie, Shane, the girl with the boy's name which his mom thought was just ridiculou...

Remember when I said I loved you? I whispered in your ear, my body draped across yours, hip to hip, ankles entangled, my mouth buried in your hair, smelling your skin. I ran my finger along your neck, across your collar and placed my palm flat on your chest, my thumb resting in the divot under your throat, printing your skin with my mark. I loved you then, in that moment. In the quiet. That restful place between dusk and dawn, between the night before and the morning after, the undertow of aching desire and tentative rest. The ephemeral, elusive, quicksilver seconds that consumed us so completely I spilled over, out of my heart. Messy, unkempt, staining the bed we buried ourselves in. I loved you then, in that moment.

Yeah? Well let me tell you something- when I said I was going to be home in half an hour, that means half an hour, not two hours or three or next week. I keep my promises when it comes to timelines. How can you not get it together to be on time??? Cathy was fuming, bits of spittle forming in the corners of her mouth, threatening to run away down her chin. George always found it incredibly feral, like a wild cat ready to tear out the liver of some poor wounded bird. But he knew better than to say anything in these moments. Oh no, he would just bow his head conjuring his best attitude of contrition and remorse, then nod knowingly, all the while reminding himself not to zone out because inevitably Cathy will at some point in the very near future reinstigate this argument as George will somehow through no fault of his own manage to yet again disappoint her. It was a fairly reliable pattern. Perhaps not the healthiest but at their age, they knew they were stuck. So they played it out, again...

Have you put on weight? Yeah, you've put on weight. You look good, more filled out. You were really skinny there for a while but now, I can see it, the weight looks good, healthier. Hey, do you ever see that guy? You know, the one down the street? That was weird, huh? I think about that every time I drive up the street, I think, I wonder what ever happened to that guy who lived on the street that you used to date. You were really upset, I remember. Yeah, that was rough on you, huh? That's when you got skinny, that's right. I can see it now, in your thighs, they're fuller, looks good. Funny, how you live on the same street and you never see him. Maybe he moved out of his sister's place- it was his sister, right? Probably got back with his ex girlfriend, didn't you say he walked out on her? Yeah, so he's probably gone crawling back. What was he, 36, 37? That's the age. He wants kids and figures he's invested 3, almost 4 years into this woman, it's ...

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...

She's allowed one more cookie. One more, not two or three, god forbid four- that would be the end of the world as Sharron knows it. It's a very big deal with her mom, controlling Sharron's cookie intake. Some call her big boned but really she is heavy, overweight for a young girl, what in the old days they would call husky. Sharron is completely obsessed with cookies. Peanut butter chocolate chip oatmeal raisin cookies to be exact, fresh from the oven, when they're almost too hot to eat without scorching off the roof of your mouth. Sharron peels one off the parchment and juggles it back and forth between her fingertips hand to hand, blowing on it until it's just the right temperature then she closes her eyes, inhales the nutty sweet chocolatey smell, and busts out in a grin from ear to ear. She tries to measure her bites- four is ideal but sometimes she gets greedy and inhales an entire cookie in two, or on a rare occasion, one and a half. She can't help it: the...

I wish you'd let it go. Really. It was months ago, for crying out loud. Had I known at the time you'd  be hanging onto my every word like it was carved in stone, coming down from the mountain, I would have shut up before I started. It was just a suggestion, anyway. A casual remark, something I said in passing. No need for you to be so literal. I really had no intention of stirring up shite like this, regardless of what you may think. And look, it's fine now. It's almost grown back in and I would venture to say, it's healthier now as a result. Wouldn't you agree? I mean, all of that processing over the years catches up to you and really, let's be honest, we're not young- the whole chemical construction changes with age,  and hormones- just look at when the grey comes in, it practically stands straight up and screams LOOK AT ME, I'M HERE! Not that it's a bad thing, the grey- I'm not saying that, not at all but I just think one has to deal with ...

Aw man, crap, no. Nononononono....big exhale, that's right, just breathe out....Adam was having a minor coronory. He hadn't seen Jane in years. Wait, what was she doing back in town? That couldn't have been her, no. Holy guacomole it's a tofu inferno. Woah. Adam realized he had come to a dead stop in the middle of the sidewalk at 5 pm, a downstream barricade in the midst of the upflow of mad commuter traffic heading frantically towards the suburban trains. A domino effect of bouncing businessmen, briefcases flailing, suit jackets creasing, stacked up behind him. Sorry, sorrysorrysorry. Damn. Adam stepped flush to the tower wall, a pink hued shade of granite, still emanating heat from basking in the midday sun. He searched down the stream of bobbing heads and shoulders shuffling, trying to remember what Jane was wearing, if it really was Jane. That gait, the set of her shoulders, the way she created a bubble around her, even in a crush of bodies. She claimed space. Eight...

Just like that. He's gone. Forever. No more late night calls, spontaneous walks on the mountain, laughing themselves silly until they can't breathe, making fun of the tam tams, the privileged west island and south shore kids who come in on Sundays to feel alternative. Glen would ridicule them behind their backs, aping their pseudo hippie composure, sitting crosslegged in three hundred dollar jeans and playing new djembes they bought from Steve's, badly. A bag of mixed day olds from Fairmont, thirteen for a buck ninety nine, tub of whipped cream cheese and flat of smoked salmon,  Glen and Leo would would grab quart bottles from the dep, share swigs while masterminding their  impending domination of the theatre world, riffing on ideas for festivals and installations, taking the piss out of Cirque and Lepage because hey, who did they think they were. Leo noticed the lump during one evening of too much hash and not enough curry, after two hours of the worst Chekhov they'd e...

Oh darlin, don't mind if I do. Sidle on up to me and whisper sweet nothings in my ear. We can trip the light fantastic, rough and tumble in the ruins of our shared miseries and erect a monument to our mutual suffering. I like the way you talk, full of dreams and wonder, hope and contradictions. Turns me on, makes me believe I'm not so crazy, not entombed in a life of failures and whatifs. We woulda been great together before the wars, the bad decisions, the how about another, c'mon just one more days. I like the way you move, your swish and giggle, all gossamer winged grace. Untethered. Lemme fly up to meet you, unmoor myself from this hell we're anchored in. One more dance, darlin, just one more dance. One last long turn on the floor. The endless farewell, a lingering kiss, brutal embrace, desperate distraction before the sun comes up and carves us into grotesque shadows of our once glorious younger selves. Don't look at me, just bury your head in my chest and wrap...

But it's tea. It's all tea. Is this tea? What's this one? The woman picks up an elegantly labeled square tin, one of 9 identical tins lined up on the massive buffed black stained maple trestle table. You'd think the gigantic silver samovar and rows of teacups would give it away but evidently there remains some confusion. Oh, I don't like tea. This one's tea, too. She frowns, shakes her head and tsk tsk's under her breath, her default involuntary reaction to disappointment. The woman has now picked up and replaced 6 out of the 9 tins, a variety of black, white, rooibos and herbal loose teas, all  ridiculously overpriced and ornately presented alongside a selection of  individually hand filled sachets. Ian stands politely at attention, ready at a moment's notice to draw a steaming hot cup for whomever asks. Nothing he says, however, assuages this woman. Granted, she's obviously unclear on the entire theme of the baby shower being that of a Tea Party. T...

He was at her door. Oh god that was quick. Gimme ten, she texted. He had been down the road, three blocks  away. She hadn't showered, it was that kind of day. Four in the afternoon and she was rolling around in lulus. It had been months since they'd seen each other, let alone spoken. They'd been intimate in ways well beyond lovers and friends. It was easy, always had been, perhaps because they both knew the limitations. Unavailable to each other in ways they couldn't shift, they created a new world just for them. Months grew into years, and their new world succumbed to old world ways, the cyclical pattern of lust, love, despair, and death until it eventually flamed out. Now here he was at her door and she could feel the atmosphere shift. Barometer rising. Resurrection. The smell of him, the way his hand feels in hers, how their bodies interlock in embrace. That moment. All it takes is a moment and she's back in the rabbit hole, somersaulting, cartwheeling through, s...

It's unlike anything David's ever heard, this incessant squawking, like a frantic parrot on acid with wings on fire. She will not shut up- nattering on and on and on and on. What language is that, anyway? Some kind of chinese or maybe filipino. It could be german with a twist for all he knows. Whatever it is, he doesn't get it it but he's thinking that if she doesn't shut up by the time he gets off the bus he'll be fluent, whether he likes it or not. What the hell is she even talking about? David can't figure out if she's pissed off or being polite. Not a great language selling point, if you ask him. Pretty confounding to feel like someone's tearing you a new one when they're actually professing their love. She's still talking. Wow. What is that, circular breathing? Maybe she plays the didjeridoo. A chinese didj player. On a downtown Toronto bus. Makes sense. Or hey, she could be  a free diver- they have great lung capacity, right? At this po...

Stop it, stop it, just stop it. I can't get anything done when you're climbing all over me. Jeez, for real, you know, just like, gimme a minute. Man. Look, I'm sorry- I don't wanna be rude but come on now, settle down. It's like the minute I get home you're all over me like white on rice. I can't think straight, my head is swimming with everything coming at me. Just. Settle. Down. Yeah, alright, ok, I'm sorry. I just need a minute, alright? Lemme take my coat off for cryin out loud, put my feet up for a sec then I can focus on you. I'm tired too, buddy, it's been a long day; I just need some space and then I can give you all the attention you need. Just five minutes of my own though, got it?  Here, look. This is how it's gonna be. I'm walking away, got it? Goin to the bathroom, gonna take a quick shower, rinse off the day. I know, I know...maybe ten, then. You can handle ten more minutes, right? What do you want me to do, huh? You want m...

Damn, have you seen her walk away? Nothin' man, I mean nothin' compares to those hips sashaying away from you when she is Pissed Off. Rile that girl up, it's like a toreador taunting a bull when she storms off. Those hips, wow. Makes me wanna clamp myself onto them like a Hindu god with eight arms, entwine myself, wind myself around that ass, like lego locking into place. Build a big ol' mess of somethin' somethin right there, I tell ya. She is spectacularly fine and she knows it. Breathtakingly beautiful. Oh, she likes to pretend she's oblivious but when she gets just out of reach she stops, shoots me a look over her shoulder. I was looking back to see if you were lookin' back at me to see me lookin back at you. She gets me going then I'm stuck in third gear with no forward motion- what's a fella to do? Holy smokes, she is one fine lookin' lady; I'm an absolute mess, the beautiful letdown, the one you try to pretend you never met. So why can...

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...