Waving Not Drowning

Man, I don't know, he answers every question with a question, makes me crazy. Cryptic little bugger. What do I do? I mean, he's her kid, not mine. I'm not a parent, not even close. No clue where to begin. Half the time he makes wanna turn tail and run the other half  I'm stunned speechless. I swear, one minute he's a genius, makes me feel like I'm lost in space, totally wise beyond his years. Filled with these zen koans, for crying out loud. Spilling out of him like a beat poet on mushrooms, so easy. And funny. Holy wow. Cracks me up. Then the next minute he's screaming blue murder or crying or whining or gets weirdly quiet and it just, you know, it unnerves me, man. I don't know what to do. I mean, he's a kid, right? I'm the boss. Or at least I should be but he gets me tied up in knots and wrapped around his little finger. I am done for. It melts my heart and fries my brain and when he doesn't come round for more than 4 days I'm sick wit...

"People mistake confidence for courage. Being courageous, truly courageous, requires so much more than brazen cocky confidence. I'm not saying that all confidence comes from narcissism, that's not what I mean; but sometimes being brave, or selfless, and truly, profoundly courageous requires a selflessness, a risk, a sacrifice of ego and agenda that some people mistake for confidence when in fact it's so much more. Truly." Farley stops short. Maude has shifted her gaze over his shoulder and is fixated on the huge neon painted banner tacked up to the south side wall of the Agora. Her eyes slowly expand as the recognition factor sinks in. It's literally like watching pennies drop and tumblers fall into place, unlocking the final puzzle. Farley is sweating, he can feel his upper lip slick with moisture, his crotch moist in beige pants, visions of sweat stains in embarrassing places. "You see Maude, um, sometimes confidence blinds other people to the fact that...

The texts keeps coming. Have tea with me. You should come meet me, really. You'll enjoy it. I'm good company, honest. We can talk physics and life on Mars and maybe even thoughts on dessert. She stares at the phone. The incessant glass chime sounds then sounds again. She's tempted to turn it off but then fears she may miss something of importance. Not necesarily from him, but from some one. Anyone else. Why is it so difficult to care, to muster any interest in anyone other than herself these days. She doesn't even find her own company that compelling right now. Stacks of fiction and periodicals line the floor beside her bed, stacked five high on the shelf above her headboard. So much to ingest, so many words, ideas, information. Read me, see me, take me in. She doesn't want to spend an hour of her life over tea with some young attractive physics student who used to lift weights for a living. Talking about space and the final frontiers as he angles a way into her pan...

The paper gown is more like one of those disposable table cloths you buy at the dollar store for a kid's birthday party. Why bother, really. Gina is lying on her back, bum edged to the lip of the table, feet in stirrups, knees folded in together, waiting for the doctor to return. Another young fresh-out-of-med-school graduate. At least she didn't give her the stink eye when she asked for an internal. Gina's old enough to be her mom. When did she get old? How does that happen. She's getting hit on by younger and younger men every day, disconcertingly so. She's stopped responding because it's just not worth the effort to try to communicate with them on any level. She doesn't find it flattering anymore. When did that change, huh. So much shifting and it's only in retrospect that Gina puts things together. A relief actually. No longer concerned with what anyone else thinks- how she dresses, what she looks like, how she moves. It's not like she was obsess...

Oh my god. She's never going to get this hour back. Maybe she can deke out when they get back to her car, beg off, feign a headache or a brain tumour. An anuerysm, maybe? Probably a bit much. Aw man, why does this always happen to her? She says yes to a blind date of sorts with some guy she meets randomly cause she thinks, hey, how bad can it be? This bad. Terrifically bad. And the worst part is that she shuts down. She's too polite, too Canadian. She wasn't raised to be rude. Evidently, he was. And oblivious. He takes calls from clients in jail awaiting bail on speaker in front of her. Tries to pawn the phone off on her as some sort of clever joke. It's inhumane and deeply discomfitting to her. An awkward walker, he takes his aged dog out with her off leash, letting him wander, sniff, pee, lick everything in sight. He displays a certain arrogance that shuts her down completely, so she comes off as awkward, shy, scattered. She's trying to bite her tongue and keep th...

Mickey and Mark are identical twins, born into a family of ancient parents. A last ditch attempt at conception and they hit it out of the park, a real two for one special. Mickey and Mark are impossible to tell apart, even their parents confuse the two, hence the colour coded wardrobe. Red for Mickey, blue for Mark. Matching, of course, throughout their childhood but even now as adults they find themselves more often than not wearing the same outifts by happenstance. Perhaps it's that secret twin ESP spidey sense that they are rumoured to share. Regardless, Mickey and Mark are wearing the same skinny tobacco coloured chinos, Tom's slip-ons with a white t shirt under a casually wrinkled shirt. Together they are a mirror image walking side by each down the corridor, past cubicle after cubicle. They work together at McCann and McCann, a marketing firm specializing in on site bilboards and placards, primarily on University campuses and in pubs. Occasionally one twin covers for the ...

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...

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...

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...

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...

Perspective is a choice. It doesn't matter how many times she tells herself this, how many affirmations she tapes to the wall next to the bathroom sink, her sense of perspective left the building long ago. She's been in the weeds for months. A dark, black hole of despair curdled with anger and deep, bewildering sadness. A slow processor. Jessie's friends are tired and wary. Let it go, move on, you're better off. Breathe. As if. Suddenly single with 2 small kids after thirteen years as Someone's Person rocked her sense of self, shattering her foundation. Pat didn't love her. He was playing at marriage with kids. He felt nothing but disappointment. Jess could fill tomes dedicated to disappointment, entire libraries. Risperdal took the edge off but she couldn't be high and keep it together for the girls. Grandparents, daycare, long runs on the seawall, primal screams in old growth forest, these consume her. She is too late. She missed her chance. Moments of sel...

First guy I like turns out to be a murderer. Not a good sign. I mean, it's not like I knew beforehand or anything- that would make me an idiot, right? That's the problem these days. There's no re-con. I mean, how do you check people out? You can google them, sure, but if some dude's got a regular name, a common, everyday, dime a dozen name, then you're inundated with thousands of hits and links and pages and pictures and...it's too much. Sharon sighs then takes a bite of her double dark chocolate cake pop smothered in strawberry icing and a long pull of her fancy coffee drink slathered in whipped cream. Jenna is convinced all that sugar is going to make Sharon crazy. Cuckoo for cocoa puffs crazy. Every day it's the same thing, some cake on a stick or elaborate french pastry and a ginormous whipped cream coffee. That's a $10 snack right there. Jenna's no idea how Shar pays for it all but who's she to judge. If it keeps her head screwed on straight...

Every five minutes Robin pops off the couch, dumping the sleeping cat from her lap and opens her apartment door, pads sock footed down the hall and wrestles with the lock on the main door to the old three story Victorian. Somehow the landlord managed to install the deadbolt backwards and upside down. After seven years Robin still struggles with unlocking it on the first try. It's a blistering cold spring day, minus fourteen with windchill. Sliding her hand through the double doors to root around in the oversized mailbox, she was mining for gold, some magic money in the form of a forgotten insurance claim or belated birthday cheque. One last payout. It's been three weeks since her last cheque and all her bills were past due.Who knew 6 months of EI would evaporate so quickly? It seems like yesterday Phil called her into his office. Apparently Robin's presence was making the rest of the office uncomfortable. It would be best for everyone involved if she left, no hard feelings,...

This was supposed to be good for him, solve all his problems, turn him into a beautiful human being free from anxiety and judgement, a zen freakin machine of bliss. Why does he feel like he's about to split in two? This can't be right. Rob is positive no human being is built to contort like this, all cirque de soleil up in his groin. The yogini in her strappy bra top and skintight lulus with her perfect upside down heart shaped ass is relentlessly upbeat and encouraging, gently guiding his hip into the right position, touching him in ways no woman has in months. If he wasn't in so much pain he'd have a raging erection. Fantastic, just what Rob needs to help him release into the pose. Oh man, don't think about release, don't look at her ass, that pefect ass. All this forward folding. It's enough to get him to class every day. Twice a day depending on the teacher. Bought himself an unlimited monthly pass. What he can't understand is why the classes aren...

He brought the cigarette up to his lips. Du Maurier, king size. Squinting, he blew the smoke rings over her outstretched fingers. She hated the fact that he smoked but it was all about picking her battles. Yeah, he was 5 inches shorter than her, but it was kind of hot. Turned her on. Guys would hit on her when they walked down the street together, oblivious to the fact that his hand was entwined with hers. His biker boots gave him an extra 2 inches but it was all the same laying down, nudge nudge, wink wink. They both had alcoholics in their midst. His father, the self-made entrepreneurial terminal disaster. Always moving on to the next big thing, always leaving everyone else behind. Her entire family was off the rails. They ran a grow op out of the basement where she played tennis against the unfinished concrete wall. Broke two of the fluorescent lights once, and panicked that she'd be grounded. They were still kids themselves, eighteen, nineteen. Every breath was all consuming. T...