Waving Not Drowning

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...

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...

"You know, like, he never even responded to my last text. And now Rahim says he's dating that skank, that blonde from Casey's party last Thursday. I Can Not Be Lieve It." Adriana spits out the last line, articulating each syllable in a hard staccato rhythm, spitting the sounds as if to get the taste of them out of her mouth. Her eyes pool, she pulls her mirrored aviator sunglasses out of her gloriously long, thick, black mane of Persian hair and slides them along the bridge of her aquiline nose, the angles of her face carving harsh shadows on the top of her barely covered breasts. She's rolled up her tank top to sun her stomach, pulled down her waistband and hauled up her shorts fashioning a makeshift bikini. Her skin soaks up the sun, turning a deep mahogany brown, barely breaking a sweat. Carly nods sympathetically, mmm'ing and ahhh'ing, adding some uh huhs, and oh yeahs for good measure. They sit casually straddled, entwined like lazy cats sunbathing, a...

Brendan has got to remember his sunscreen. His face is an entirely different colour than his chest. Unnervingly so. The back of his neck is a screaming red mess of angry freckles that emanate heat like  a burning coil, almost too hot to touch. This is going to hurt in the morning. Five pints too many, he has vague memories of a woman named Natalie or Alexa, maybe Analee. Someone with too many vowels in their name. Karaoke in a private room, throngs of Japanese ESL students and Sweet Home Alabama on repeat at 11 on the dial after a beachside pub crawl celebrating July. Or summer or something or nothing in particualr. Brendan can not for the life of him remember anything in specifics. Except he is suddenly aware that he has indeed lost his phone. It's sometime pre dawn but not quite 5 am and Brendan can't move his neck for the pain in his skin. He flails around like a blind mole, flapping his arms in a 360 degree circle desperately feeling for anything familiar that will send som...