Waving Not Drowning

The neighbours must think she's killing the cat. An intermittent high pitched squeak that opens up to a full throated belch travels through the vents, like a goose in heat or an old man trying to blow his brains out through his nose. This was way easier in seventh grade. It's been 24 years since Reggie picked up a clarinet. She thought for sure she'd be able to run some scales, play a few ditties from memory but she fears she's bursting blood vessels instead. Two thousand dollars in facials, microdermabrasion and intense light therapy for age spots down the drain. The horn was on display in the window of a pawn shop on Queen East and in a flurry of nostalgia she shelled out $150 cash. Perhaps it's a just a crappy horn and would sound like an animal being impaled even if Benny Goodman was blowing it. The real question is what is she doing trying to recapture obsessions of her youth. She hated band practice. Reggie skipped rehearsal as often as she could fake a cold o...

There's a huge hole in the floor behind the bar where the softwood planks have worn through or rotted, Kylie can't tell. She's become adept at sidestepping it unconsciously, a pattern her body has memorized in order to safeguard her from falling clean through and landing in the cellar storage room downstairs. The joys of working for aged hippies in a legendary much loved restaurant on the hip strip of town. Had she known what she was getting into Kylie would have stuck with the fine dining gig on the east side but no, this was such a great spot, such an iconic hangout and the location, well- a five minute walk from home, so it seemed like kismet at the time. Dominic comes screaming out of the kitchen waving an 8" chef's knife, drunk, 4 in the afternoon, the lazy hour of the day between shifts. Thankfully only staff are hanging about. Bob, one of the owners, a dead ringer for James Taylor circa the Carly Simon years, only pushing 60, reigns him back into the kitchen...

Lean into it, just drop your shoulder, plant your feet, turn your core on and lean into it. Trust that you'll find your balance, alright? You can do this, you know this- you've trained your whole life for this moment and you've got this. You Know This. Kaelea takes a deep breath, trying to quiet her nerves. Her palms are shaking. She closes her eyes, runs through the routine in her head for the umpteenth time. Visualize, visualize; she replays the sequencing over and over, mouthing affirmations and positive self talk. She's read that all of this helps, it really works. It could be the edge she needs to give her the tenths of a point that mean the difference between gold and silver. Or worse, not medaling at all. The years of sacrifice, countless hours of practice, recovery, of being tethered to the gym, missing every dance, every party, every sleepover; spending weekends in cars driving to meets and tournaments and being billeted in strange houses with stranger people. ...

That night when we were twenty one and you had left Patty and I left Mark and we borrrowed your mom's van and we drove as far as we could go on seven dollars and forty five cents worth of change we cobbled together from various coat pockets, bottoms of purses and couch cushions, and we drove as far as we could til we reached half a tank of gas and ate soft serve ice cream cones with a chocolate dip, wandered ancient general stores, spoke secrets out loud and promised each other the world- that was the night you asked me to marry you and I said yes but really meant but not now because I was young and we were crazy and I was terrified of the reality but in love with the romantic idealism and thought that yes would somehow magically solve our life's problems, which seemed monumental and all consuming and would irrevocably change the rest of our lives. That night, that's the night I play over and over in my head, every day, every minute of every day, since I saw you on the stre...

Remember when I said I loved you? I whispered in your ear, my body draped across yours, hip to hip, ankles entangled, my mouth buried in your hair, smelling your skin. I ran my finger along your neck, across your collar and placed my palm flat on your chest, my thumb resting in the divot under your throat, printing your skin with my mark. I loved you then, in that moment. In the quiet. That restful place between dusk and dawn, between the night before and the morning after, the undertow of aching desire and tentative rest. The ephemeral, elusive, quicksilver seconds that consumed us so completely I spilled over, out of my heart. Messy, unkempt, staining the bed we buried ourselves in. I loved you then, in that moment.

I wish you'd let it go. Really. It was months ago, for crying out loud. Had I known at the time you'd  be hanging onto my every word like it was carved in stone, coming down from the mountain, I would have shut up before I started. It was just a suggestion, anyway. A casual remark, something I said in passing. No need for you to be so literal. I really had no intention of stirring up shite like this, regardless of what you may think. And look, it's fine now. It's almost grown back in and I would venture to say, it's healthier now as a result. Wouldn't you agree? I mean, all of that processing over the years catches up to you and really, let's be honest, we're not young- the whole chemical construction changes with age,  and hormones- just look at when the grey comes in, it practically stands straight up and screams LOOK AT ME, I'M HERE! Not that it's a bad thing, the grey- I'm not saying that, not at all but I just think one has to deal with ...

Shaking off the cobwebs. Not literally cause that would freak Angie out. Waking up in a strange place and wondering how the hell she got here. Again. One long road trip, night after night, anonymous hotels, motels, load in, load out. Hello Patchogue! How you doing,  Pawtucket! Weeks turn into months and big things like money and sales don't matter anymore. She misses her cat. She even misses G, her on-again off-again lover who right now more than anything she wishes was on again this tour. Careful what you wish for. It's hard to say no, having drank the kool aid as an impressionable, ambitious young artist. Always take the gig, go where the work is, it's all about the work, it's the only thing that matters. At the expense of everything else. No home, no family, no partner she can call her own. Emotionally, socially stunted. Even her cat prefers her neighbour. She would too really, seeing as he's home and remembers to change the litter every day. She's missed eve...

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...

Twenty one felt ancient at the time. Years past high school, three years of college, and here they were all grown up, fully realized, standing at the foot of Mike's open casket. Who's decision was that, the open casket?  Dressed in his favourite shirt, the grey, red and white watery plaid, he looks like he's sleeping. Pompadour in place, cheeks too pink, skin an unfamiliar waxy grey. This is when twenty one feels childlike. Overwhelming. None of this makes sense to them. Mike was Max's friend who fell in love with Jennifer's cookies. One of her regulars. Every day before his shift he'd come by the cookie store and wax poetic about the glory of the simple Chocolate Chunk. Who needed the Menage A Trois?  he'd say. Three types of chocolate was bludgeoning you over the head. Nah, straight up dark chocolate is the only one worth eating, according to Mike. His half cocked grin slowly slid across his mouth. Knowing. Jen would occasionally throw in an extra cookie, ...

His smell. Undeniably of him. Like no one else she'd ever smelled before, like her nose was hardwired into her pulse. Every time she smelled him, she felt as if her head would explode from blood pressure rising. The middle of the night wake-ups, the 3 am silent dark moments. She'd awaken from deep slumber smelling him. He's 5000 kilometers away and permeates every cell of her body. How does that happen? There's an upside to having a large linen collection. Fifteen sets of pillowcases and it's as if he's in every one. She can't remember the last time he laid his head on her pillow, if ever, now that she thinks about it. Yet she'll walk down the street, do a triple shoulder check because she swears he's in the air, all around her. In the midst of the heavyset autumn eve, he lingers in her body. Something happens when the sun comes out and the trees erupt their blossoms. His scent disappears. Only for a few days but it's as if the possibility of new...