Waving Not Drowning

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...

Dimitri can't pick up the smoked salmon canapé from the long skinny ceramic tray. His hands, meaty thick paws covered in scars, calloused and worn, are ungainly. Functional, strong, weathered but not fit for delicate hors d'oeuvres. Standing on brushed granite stone floors imported from the other side of the world, a long sleeve of microbrewed beer in one hand, a napkin of sugarcane shrimp in the other. Rogerio, Vlad and Justin awkwardly socialize with the gang of tradesmen representing at least 15 different cultures and countries. A thank you gathering for the workers who put together this monstrosity of a house, all 4000 square feet of custom designed opulence. Still an empty shell, yet to be filled with furniture and art and life, it's lines are bold. Clean, angular, severe. No curverd space, no soft edges. Sharp, purposed. Windows from floor to ceiling overlooking what will surely become a meticulously manicured back acreage falling deliberately into the preserved ravin...

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...

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...

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....