Waving Not Drowning

His fingertips on her skin, his breath in her lungs Filling her up with memories of what once Was What will never again Be. The smell of clean damp skin Of bathwater Sweat soaked scalp Slept-in hair worn covered under a woollen hat too long. The way his hands twitch when he hears music with his body. The way her hips move, articulating her language. Familiar once Now foreign to each other. An unspoken language Long forgotten in the disharmony of their destruction. Strangers in waiting Wondering if past transgressions can ever give way to the possibility of future forgiveness. Begin again. Do over And over and over and over to the point where they become numb Non sensical in rhythm Rhyme, time. Incommunicado.

Joe's hitting the bottom of the bowl. Twenty minutes and the candy is gone. Floor's littered with wrappers, hands sticky with waxy chocolate. Bit of a train wreck. All for naught. Hustling home, desperate to find something resembling a pumpkin to carve, nearly slicing to the bone as the dull paring knife slides off the gourd and into his finger. Joe wonders why he tries so hard. It's expected of him, maybe, he doesn't know. All the hustle and bustle at work, everyone dressing up and gorging on cookies and cake all day like it's the end of the world instead of the end of the month. Head is raging, there's a migraine coming on. Too much crap. Sugar and coffee and cheap sparkling wine. Carly's wedding shower, with a Halloween theme. Terrible idea. The wedding singer meets the walking dead: who'd want that as an omen for upcoming nuptials. The weather's terrible. Unseasonably warm with hurricane force random gales of wind. He checks the candle in the blo...

"How can you do that? How can you go and do that? I don't- I can't." Daphne is sputtering now, apoplectic with rage and despair. "I mean, really. Really!?! You ate the last piece of my cake . My BIRTHDAY cake. MINE. I saved that piece specifically- you ate the corner piece with my name written on it, how could you possibly think that was meant for YOU?" Daphne collapses onto the stool at the island, exhausted. She's spent every last ounce of her energy and the full weight of the loss is hitting her hard. She has been dreaming about this cake all day. All week. She had portioned it out so that come Friday she could indulge, finally, in the best part of the entire last year. A custom four tiered coconut banana dark chocolate layer cake with a hint of mocha and edible flowers. Edible flowers, for crying out loud! Pink and purple and yellow, her favourite colours. She had searched high and low for the right bakery to make it exactly the way she envisioned it...

She crossed the street and there he was. All dressed up, here on business, out with work, doing his thing, glad handing, networking, seeing and being seen. All the way from the other side of the country, he appears. No note, no text, no call. It was last minute, he says. I had no plans until I had plans. Plans that glaringly lacked inclusion of her on any level. They're not friends. Barely acquaintances. They were lovers; complicated emotionally, different levels of involvement and ability, desire to engage. She says hello. He's affable, his polite self, distant and guarded but never leads the conversation, remains firmly in response mode so in effect, unaccountable. Controlling, in his way. Wouldn't want to get emotional. Doesn't offer himself up nor make an effort to make time or space for her while he's here. Clear as a bell. She gathered he wasn't planning a call, she says. He counters with I figured you'd gather that. He offers up aphorisms of do yourse...

And this is how it goes. You give a little to get a little. When your expectations fall apart, stop having them. When the wants and needs override the plain and simple facts of the matter, change course. Lean into it or fall over and get back up. Again. Then one more time. And again because the bottom's not going anywhere but the sky is limitless. Practice grace and forgiveness then eat some good cookies. Be kind. To yourself. Then more so to the ones you love especially if they can't give you what you want. Or need. Sleep deeply. Dream lucidly. Create the most perfect reality that you can then let it go. Have a spontaneous dance break and throw your hands in the air. Like you just don't care. Words are worthy. You are worthy. We- we are here to be loved. So let's love.

Another trip round the sun. Three hundred sixty five days, couple of blue moons, handful of seasons, myriad of cells sloughed off, regenerated and she's still here. One year older, arguably wiser, certainly more experienced with this thing called Life and all that entails. Every moment of every day carries within it the pure potential to swing wildly in or out of her favour so she's been practicing choice, adaptation, engagement, disentanglement, acceptance, forgiveness, righteous indignation, compassion, kindness and outright fear and anger wrapped in a bottomless pit of Now What? One more year, one more ring around the trunk. Roots grow deeper, sails bellow out a bit deeper and black and white becomes a tenuous shade of grey more often than not. The what ifs, the shoulda woulda coulda's mean something different now. That surprises her. Expect the unexpected. Better yet, lose all expectation. Investments are larger, losses are greater and the highs failed to manifest in an...

The sound of her best friend laughing, choking back snorts and hiccups because she's lost her breath, doubled over and weeping with hysteria. The goosebumps on her forearms when she feels the wind brush over her skin at dusk on a perfectly clear, cool late summer eve. The unexpected email from a stranger halfway around the world thanking her for being herself, sharing her story so that others may grow, understand and feel less alone in their struggles. Fresh organic berries with a cashew cream whip and iced Americano in the backyard hammock. Her sister, miles away, ever present in her heart and mind and all over the house draped in her artwork. Her parents in her. DNA, mannerisms, the tilt of her head while gesticulating with arms akimbo, leaning on her hip, as if to underline her point. Sunrise. Possibility. The last cookie at the cafe while bumping into old friends and impromptu catch up dates. Warm skin next to hers, arms wrapped loosely around her waist, head tucked into a ches...

The way he brushed her hair from her forehead, the lingering kiss of a finger drifting slowly down her neck, tracing the line of her collarbone and resting every so fleetingly on the rise of her left breast. Her heart raced to catch up, frantic to burst through her ribs, to be held in the palm of his hand, lifted to his lips and devoured whole. Three weeks, 4 days, 13 hours and 36, 37, 38 minutes since he dropped her off the edge of the earth with two small words. Three syllables, devastating in their simplicity, piercing like a hollow core bullet ripping through tissue and bone, exploding every cell of matter in it's wake. Cannibalizing her sense of self, the knowledge of who she was in relation to him. Of another. To be left, discarded. Unwanted, unwarranted in one's desire, wanting. Bereft. Forlorn. Early morning foggy sunrise drenched in misty rain and dewy greens surrounding the abandoned pergola overlooking the mountains cresting beyond the stretch of train tracks rising ...

You only get one first time. One first kiss, one first love, one first heartbreak. The first job, the first car, the first home, the first kid, the first  fight. The first make up session that leads to the beginning of the first step forward into the first part of the next phase in your first grown up, accountable adult relationship. That moment of realisation is a first, too. Your first trip, your first show, your first train/plane/ bus/ car/ pony ride. You can't un pop a cherry, un pit a peach. Your first failure, first loss; the irrevocable damage caused by the first betrayal that turns each and every subsequent betrayal into a number increasingly greater than that monumentally iconic First. The first time you cause someone deliberate, earthshattering, soul crushing pain. Intense shame, overwhelming gratitude. The first of the last goodbyes. First miss, first reunion, first communion. First aches and pains, first forgettings of any new firsts because slowly, steadily, you've...

It's the back of his head. The shape of his neck, how his ears sit on the sides of his skull. The way his spine moves, if it's fluid or locked; Zoe falls in love with the back of his body. A rather attractive guy gets on the streetcar or passes by on the sidewalk. She sees him check her out; she makes eye contact, then starts the checklist: could I love that neck? Do I see myself with those ears for the rest of my life? That back- rather rigid and held through the thoracic mid section, doesn't seem to have a lot of awareness going on. Probably not athletically inclined. Oh, wait. No, that would never do. He has no bum. Flat assed. Oh no. Nononono. I can't see loving that, no, not me. Another man sits down. He's directly across from her in the coffee shop, pulls out his laptop, plugs in his earbuds and starts to tap away, focused and easy, with a calm, zen-like energy. Zoe is intrigued. He gets up from the table to fetch his order off the bar and she sees it: the ba...

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...

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...

All Anthony wanted was a few bananas and some peanut butter. His kingdom for Nutella but he wasn't hedging his bets. He was slow going, still half in the bag from last night's commiseration session with Isabelle gnashing and wailing about Kev's new girlfriend. Anthony gets it, he does. Lord knows she put up with the Great Heartbreak of 'o8 with him. A solid year of despair and self loathing. Surviving the war. They forgot to get breakfast fixings and it's going on noon. His stomach was beyond rumbling, it was a full blown orchestra with kettle drums pounding. It's a fine line between nausea and hunger. He realizes the sound isn't emanating from his intestines but rattling the windows from College Street below. Christ almighty, the Resurrection parade. Thousands of devout Catholics lined up 5 bodies deep, celebrating the Easter holy days. For six blocks police cordoned off both sides of the street and locked down traffic. He'd never get out his front door...

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...

She is breathtakingly beautiful. That's not just a saying, Marinda really does take people's breath away. Men walk into telephone poles passing her on the street. Light standards- they bounce off and grapple for a moment to find equilibrium then follow her with their gaze until she's out of sight. Longing.  It's an ease, a quiet confidence coupled with stunning beauty; a grace and elegance married in strength and sexuality. Power. Potential. Men and women want to sleep with her. Marry her. Possess her, ingest her then travel the world with her, climbing mountains and rescuing malnourished orphan children while digging wells in Eritrea with her. She inspires that depth of devotion. A fascination and dedication known only by gurus and cult leaders. Except she's neither. Never practiced yoga a day in her life. Namaste what? As for cults, her parents escaped with the family when she was 3. Her brother and sister have made a relative go of things in the outside world. Be...

I should probably go. He gently unbinds his limbs from hers, elevates himself up and over to the side of the bed. Her fingers trace the length of his spine. She imagines her hand leaving an imprint visible only when their bodies interlock. A secret branding. His fingers come to rest in the crease where her hip portrudes like a handle. Grab on. He gives a quick squeeze, no more than a pulse, then starts to dress. She can tell by the set of his shoulders, the turn of his head that he's already gone. They are unaccustomed to being seen, known, revealed. She draws herself up to match his height, drapes herself across his body from behind, clasping her hands over his heart. For a moment they fuse into each other's skin, their breath aligned, tempted to begin again. Her head falls into the curve of his neck. The air changes between them. I have to go. What transpires in that ephemeral communion between two lovers, what causes the incremental shift of tectonic plates to slide out of b...

The woman has a baby strapped to her chest. It's one of those front pack sacks that you stick a kid in and it faces the world with all four limbs jutting out in every direction. Ferg lets out an audible involuntary grunt. He just doesn't get it. You'd think after carrying the thing in her stomach for ten months she'd want the relief of a stroller or something but no, she's strapped this poor kid across her chest like a bomb, a human shield that drools and spits. Different take on a camel. Crazy breeders. Why do people even have kids anymore, aren't they aware of the massive over population problems in the world? There's 7 billion on one planet, it's a bit much, by anyone's standards. Granted it's not like Ferg is going to be breeding anytime soon. Last girlfriend he had was in junior high school, Alicia Loring. Not like they ever really went out or had an actual date, more like Mark set him up with his girl's best friend and they became an it...

A cup of coffee, all Frank wants is a bloody cup of coffee. He doesn't give a shit where it's from, Sumatra, Peru, Ethiopia, who cares, it's not like he's the UN for cryin out loud. Just a freaking cup of coffee, black, no milk or cream or soya or what the jesus, almond milk. What the hell is that. Who drinks milk made from almonds? How do you even milk an almond? When did everything get so bloody complicated. All Frank wants is his cup of morning coffee to help shake off the bourbon fog. Hot and black so he can slug it back with his smokes. That's it, that's all she wrote. Coffee that doesn't cost him four bucks a shot. Whole neighbourhood's gone to ratshit since Jimmy's Place closed. Thirty two years Frank counted on Jimmy's for a decent cup of joe, corn beef on rye, bottle of Blue, Maker's Mark when he was feeling flush, and time on the table where he didn't have to hustle frat boys to get a game in. Easy living. Now these bloody hipst...

So much red wine. Dead soldiers litter the kitchen floor and drip  precariously from the counter ledge. Happy birthday to Ryan. Every year's a bloody miracle. He spends so much of his time trying to annihilate himself that making it to next weekend is never a safe bet. He can't even remember who was at the party. Janet, Su, maybe Rick and D, but Nat's still asleep on his floor tangled in last night's stockings so obviously she made it. It's his Jesus year. Never thought he make it past 27, the year all great players die. Not that would deign to compare himself to a Jimi or Janis or Jim or Kurt. Fuck, 33 is really old. It's time to man up, put on his big boy pants and deal with his shit. That's Nat's voice in his head. She's one to talk, a mess of tequila soaked heartbreak on the rug. Damn. Careful not to light the stove nearby or she may spontaneously combust. Christ, how did they get like this? East side piss poor wanna-be Sid and Nancy. He was goin...

Oh, how I loved you, every single piece of you. I ached for you, dreamt of you, reveled in the way you smelled and tasted and delighted me. I became transfixed by the thought of having you, if only for a moment. The rush, the sensation of an overwhelming eruption of taste and satisfaction. Umami. Dripping down my fingers, spilling from the sides of my mouth, licking my lips, sucking every last morsel from my fingers. Then it all went wrong. The pain. Sleepless nights, doubled over, rocking like a child in the fetal position, knowing, deep down, that it was over. It had to be, for my own good. I kept trying to dip back in, just a taste; a friend with benefits, every now and then, trying desperately to convince myself it wasn't as destructive as it was. But I knew. My body was telling me- I had to let go. Walk away, kill my cravings. For you, your soft, sticky, sweet and chewy, cinnamony, lightly iced goodness. Oh gluten, you devil in my belly, why did it have to end like this? I thi...