Waving Not Drowning

There's no joy here. That's what she thinks when she looks into his pale blue crystalline eyes. A coolness settles around him. Tentative, guarded, quiet. Or mastered. Half a dozen of one... It didn't take her long to realize he was something other than what she was used to. L'autre, as they say. No wham bam thank you m'am How YOU doin' Jesus woman, you make me weak in the knees sorta bloke. Even his eyewear is sedate. There's a half smile occasionally withdrawing into a smirk. Unknowingly. A learned reflex, a laugh out loud withdrawn too soon. At this stage of the game, it's bred in the bone. Restraint. Observational engagement. Small ripples run deep. There's an undertow drawing her in but she can't tell if it's her own volition or an actual tidal pull. Full moon fever. He ebbs and flows. She wants to ride big waves. There's a quality of grace and wonder, a generosity of spirit that spills forth from  her every cel. ...

"I think that went well, don't you? Not too painful, I hope." Nothing's quite as inspiring as this man standing before her, flop sweating, blissfully unaware of his awkward courting. He means well, she knows this; but "not too painful" still involves a whole lotta work on her part. Oh, that's mean, she thinks. Bad, bad Julia. Be nice, play well with others. She glances at her phone and knows if she can extricate herself now there's still time to hustle home and pour herself a tumbler of Red Breast before she has to call it a night. Finally satiate her palate. It's clear to her. She likes her own company the best. She did discover a hip new local, though, populated with an unexpectedly queer positive crowd kitted out in matching plaid button-downs and ironically sloganed t shirts: I'm OK, You're OK. Their server was a close talker, gregarious, maybe high, maybe happy, with a pop culture awareness that disappeared at 1987. The ...

One by one they went away. She stopped reading his messages, left emails unopened, dumped files, deleted histories. Pictures, videos, playlists, all gone. Wipe the heart drive clean. It's taken months, almost a year, really. Now she doesn't roll over at 4 am half asleep and grab the phone charging on the shelf above her head. She's letting go by blowing things up. Just short of annihilating- it's not in her nature to leave without a trace. In this day and age she knows that's an impossibility. She will always exist in some form, some code, some file, texts, download, screen grabs, half opened bottle of hairspray in the corner of the back shelf. She's eradicated any visible trace of them together. Contact lists, addresses, important dates, favourite links, wish lists, all of it wiped clean. Slowly she's getting herself back. The coffee shop on 4th two blocks west of her, once their, apartment is returning to the rotation. As is the regular Wednesday night mee...

She pulls on her thickest socks, wiggling her toes, hanging over in a forward fold, nose to knees, letting out a long, low sigh. Mornings. She could fall back into bed right now and pretend this day isn't happening but then what? Where to then? Eventually the sun will come up and things will have to get done. A shower. Breakfast. Walk the dog, shovel the steps, do the laundry, return his messages that have been haunting her for the last three days. She has no idea what to say, how to tell him she is leaving. It's been an incredible time, more fulfilling, exhilarating and wholly encompassing than anything she could have possibly imagined and she's got to go. There is nothing left except the inevitable fall from grace so it's time to disengage and disappear. Part of her wants so badly to hop in the car, race over to his attic apartment with the fake panelled walls and red shag rug, propel herself into his arms, legs wrapped tightly around his hips and tackle him onto the ...

As she walked through the kitchen she took a look at the pile of breakfast dishes in the sink, sighed, doubled back to the circular red mat, rolled up the sleeves on her thumbed yoga jacket and threw on the tap. Do them now or deal with them at the crack of ass in the morning. Why she didn't do them this morning confounds her since she found the time to read 300 pages of her book while searching for knee high brown boots online and cruising recipe blogs for cinnamon twist churro-like donuts. Those are priorities. Dishes, pffft. Unexciting. Until 8 pm rolls by and Kerri realizes how much of the day she's pissed away. Anxiety creeps in like a parachute deflating on top of her, swallowing her whole. Gotta do more, gotta be more. That's when she clocks the teapot, barely warm, filled to the brim with the after dinner herbal digestive tea she boiled off an hour earlier. At least she can drink lukewarm tea. Tepid coffee, not so much. Either ice cold or steaming hot with a thick c...

She can barely open her eyes. They're slits now, like a snake. Her skin is hot, red and tight, stretched across her face like a hide being cured. The antihistamines are useless. Two packages of Benadryl and she's in a stupor with no relief. It's day three and something is making her swell up like a balloon about to burst. If she drank forties like water and mainlined salt like sugar, maybe this would make sense. People recoil from her on the street. Thankfully she loves oversized sunglasses and large brimmed hats because when the allergist's receptionist saw her even his jaw dropped. "Oh my, you are an emergency, aren't you?" The doctor figures it's environmental, something in the air or walls where she's living. Julie can't believe it. After everything she's suffered through now she has to move. Again. Benny leaves her high and dry with three weeks to find an apartment. There was a note on the fridge. He packed up the bike and was heading ...

They set up a skype date so they could discuss their next move. With the time change and opposite schedules getting an actual conversation happening was more convoluted than string theory. So ridiculously complicated. By the time Alistair is home from work Zara is fast asleep. On days when Z is up at the crack of dawn, it's 3 am Al's time but he's either a few glasses into his wine and poring over a script or exhausted and too stressed to sleep. God forbid he's entertaining company.  It took a while but Z knows nothing good comes from late night-early morning texting or phone calls. If he's up and sees her online he can call her, thank you very much. The last thing she needs is to skype him and see some other woman tangled up in his sheets over his shoulder. Sheets she bought and broke in with him on Easter weekend last spring. What a difference four months makes. His contract got picked up and the work is pouring in. It's biblical in scope. Work begets work beg...

Four more days til he can get back to her. The deal is never longer than two weeks. Thirteen consecutive nights alone and even that is pushing it. After 4 years of long distance commuting Tom is feeling things start to implode. They're creating problems where there aren't any for the sake of conversation. Conflict creates contentious communion. Magnetic poles attracting and repelling simultaneously. It started so well. Big dreams, incredible connection. Flurries of fleeting layovers, insane exhausting weekends, extended overnighters,  the eventual week-long live-in. From the beginning they know what they're in for. Bicoastal breakdown. Tom vows he'll never do a long distance relationship. Elaine doesn't see it coming. An unexpected hello turns into a twenty minute seduction. His eyes on her arms, her lips on his neck, their fingers intertwine, legs interlock and time stops. Clothing litters the floor, sheets are soaking wet, an entire suite is consumed by their bodi...

Gerry insists on wearing the green cords, his favourite purple Ninja Turtle t shirt topped with his cape. Lorna doesn't really care; Gerry's worn that cape almost every day since his birthday in April. When she puts him to bed after reading The Velveteen Rabbit four times and they sing You've Got A Friend in whispers twice, she turns the light off and the constellation glows a faint green on his ceiling. She listens for the shift in his breathing, when it drops in cadence, deeper, slower. That's the moment to extricate the cape from under his pillow. Enough time to throw it in the wash and get it dried, folded and placed back where it started before she passes out from exhaustion, generally around 10. It's been a long four years. He's a great kid but this was never the plan, solo parenting. Now, first day of school in the morning. Weeks of planning, dry runs, deciding on what to wear again and again. The cords, the sweater, the jeans, the superman pajamas. Alway...

He places a cool cloth across her forehead. She's burning up, in and out of sleep, struggling. It's breaking his heart but he's so grateful to be here. His guitar lays at the foot of the bed. Gibson Les Paul Standard Gold Top, the one gift she got right. He played to her for hours, all her favourites, singing in that voice she loves, making up words if he forgot them. She didn't notice. If she did, she didn't care. She probably only hears him in waves anyway. She comes to then slides back under, the way tides ebb and flow at the full moon's passing. She's leaving him, this time for good. No more slamming doors or hanging up the phone. No cars speeding off down a dirt road, taillights fading while he stands alone in the ditch wondering how he's going to get back home. So much anger. Rage. Passion. Intensity. Disappointment and fear defined her until she exhausted him and her body in the process. Millions of cells, billions of molecules passing in the air ...

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.

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...

The soft, virgin skin on the inside of his forearms is covered in hair. Sparsely so but it's there none the less. She can't bear it. It's like he's sprouting all over. Fine dark wavy hairs in inappropriate places. The backs of his shoulders crawling across his scapulas and marching down the middle of his  back. Crawling up his ribs and wrapping themselves around his waist, carving in and out in every direction. His facial hair has no discernible boundaries by the end of the day. He leaves home clean shaven and returns after work with a full shadow, leaning towards a three day beard. It's his superpower, he says. Ch ch ch chia runs on a loop through her head. A clay head smothered with seeds to grow and groom. She shudders, furrowing her brow. She's shy around the subject but she knows he can feel her visceral repulsion when her engagement ring gets caught in the forest of curls on his bum at the top of his thighs. She loves him so much, she does. She truly belie...

"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 rain came out of nowhere. They're driving home, not late but late enough. Sheets start to fall from the sky, landing like concrete waves obliterating any visibility. Slow down, she says. Easy, easy. He taps the breaks, throws on the four way flashers. The air gets close, their skin tightens and breathing gets shallow. Up ahead lights glare, fade and recede then flash back into view at an alarming frequency. Reds, yellow, orange. Mainly red. Pull over, can you pull over? I'll try. He signals. They maneouver slowly to the shoulder. What feels like a shoulder, but the rain. They can't tell.  It's deafening now. Should we stay put, what do you think, I can't tell. Isn't it dangerous to leave the car? The two of them sit in stasis, staring ahead, nothing but the sound of the rain beating on them incessantly. Unforgiving. I'm glad you're here, he says. I'm glad you're with me. That we're together. I don't tell you that, do I? She stares str...

It falls to the floor before she can grab it, tumbling through her fingers and bouncing across the tile before cracking and leaking onto the rug in front of the toilet. Too much glass in here: glass shelves, glass bottles, glass mirrors. Her heart stops as the scent rises up into her nose, wrapping itself around her lungs and lining the inside of her belly. Her lips swell and palms sweat, she starts to tear up and get weak in the knees. Alex. All over her, inside of her, on top of her, away from her. He insisted she have her own scent. He wanted to buy her perfume so they spent days trolling drugstores and department stores, spraying, sniffing, coughing, choking, laughing, hmm'ing and haa'ing trying to encapsulate their connection in some sort of alcohol infused watery potion. Late nights leaning into her neck, he'd lift her wrist to his face and breathe her in, all the way down to his toes. They'd compare little paper swatches, over breakfasts of coffee and half-pans o...

We just don't understand each other, I guess. What do you want from me? Erik was detached, barely repressing his thinly veiled irritation with Lindsay. It's been going on for months. The same argument, back and forth, circling down the drain, an endless spiral of  miscommunication. So decayed it's coming apart in pieces. Wow. Just wow. Lindsay has no other words. A year of hoping against hope he'd come around Lindsay is realizing that it's over. Erik is in it for Erik and Erik alone. And the booze. Lindsay's fallen apart physically, her body shut down months ago and she's muscling through day to day trying to stave off her own implosion. The wilful self destruction of their lives. So this is the way it ends, not with a bang, but a whimper. The end of the what ifs, the could be's, the happily ever after, like peeling back layers of newly formed skin on the scab that just won't heal. They're too far gone to find the horizon and get back to an ev...

There really is no other way but straight through. Paul could take a left but that would pull him so far off his chosen course that he'd end up hours behind. Days, maybe. The scenic route is awfully tempting though, especially since the alternative is mind numbingly flat and boring; at this rate stimulation is key. He's been nodding off for the last few hours and jolting himself awake with blaring satellite dance music, windows rolled wide open and copious amounts of glow in the dark energy drinks. Coffee stopped working back in the eastern standard time zone. Not much farther now; 400 kilometres to go then a final 20 or 25 winding through the downtown core proper. If he heads to the coastal highway, he'll add at least another hour. Tempting to pull off at the point, unhook his board and paddle out for a while. To the island even, camp for a night. Maybe never come back. Forage, make do. Build a shelter, light a fire, dig in. Disappear. Start over, once again. If you asked ...

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 ...

If you ask Lena, she'll tell you: she sets hard boundaries. That means saying no and sticking to it. A resolution that has come about after too many years of being the yes-man to everyone. Lena is the gal you count on to get things done, any day, any time, any where. Fast, efficient and with absolute discretion, like no other personal concierge you'd ever meet. Consistently on point. Lena is extraordinary at whatever she sets her mind to. Regardless of whether or not she wants to do said task or is actually engaged or fulfilled in any way, be it emotionally, intellectually, or socially. She's a  a woman of action, who sits in the eye of the storm and finds clarity, calmness and resolution, at any cost. Which is why Lena's personal life is an abject failure. Eight months ago a sudden call found her halfway round the globe on what should have been her 3 year anniversary with Tye. Oh, Tye. He just can't seem to finish anything he starts. A mess of ideas and projects an...