Waving Not Drowning

He doesn't want to leave the house. As soon as the sun goes down John wants to dive under the covers and sleep for days. It's in his DNA, he tells himself. Winter's coming, must hibernate. He peels himself off the couch, steps over the cat spread eagled on the throw rug, dodges the stack of magazines he meant to read last week, month, year and finds himself assuming the position: bent over at the waist, peering into the bowels of the fridge, searching for some semblance of edibles among the rows of condiments, rotting thai leftovers and jars of raw nuts. How can people live in Alaska, not seeing the sun for 9 months of the year? John's trying to make an effort. He signed up for a two week introductory trial at the hot yoga studio thinking he might meet some women and get his energy flowing. Or inverted, or something. He's managed to make it to two classes with one more day to go before it expires. It's 8 pm. There's still time to catch a movie, an open mic n...

He unloaded in her lap. Dumped his secret life all over her. She no longer has the option of ignorance. Ignorance is power. Ignorance allows her to maintain their friendship as is:  uncomplicated, purely platonic. With his hidden self unmasked, she knows too much. It's burdensome. Unfair. She didn't ask for this. It was a cup of coffee, a catch up with a married friend and colleague. Safe. He is committed to someone else. Ring on finger, vows unbroken, kids in strollers, blah, blah, blah. Holden was not going to hit on her. Ever. It had never even crossed her mind. No matter how drunk they got or how heated the conversation. She kept it above board and he followed suit. Hooray for the adult opposite sex friendship. The bomb drops. A series of them. A drone airstrike, completely unforeseen, annihilating the entirety of their experience together. Words transform the air between them. The sky darkens, the barometer rises. Trish is dizzy. Nauseated and off balance, a gravity drop a...

I was the one at that party getting my butt slapped with a huge paddle by gay boys dressed in sailor uniforms. That was me, I was that chick. Yeah, so that's how we met. Stacie 's holding a roasted cob of corn dripping with butter in her hand and gesticulating with it wildly. Jake and Cary are drinking PBR tall boys out of paper bags, nodding and smiling, busting out in cackles of laughter peppered with, Boy! Nu'uh, totally brah- I seen you! Mmmmm! while flicking their fingers in a spastic dance over their heads, doubling over in high drama laughter. Peacocks in full display, fanning their tails, the group of them. Throngs of people mill about, ebbing and flowing, sometimes coming to a standstill then suddenly swimming upstream again, around the funnel cakes and ice cream, a different band every 20 metres. Samba, rock and roll, Ecuadorian pan flute, old school traditional jazz, psychedelic funk and bad Tony Bennet covers. Six blocks of carnival crazy peppered with the UN of...