(sample sunday)

November 27th, 2011

Below are the first seven chapters of A Dream Apart (the pre-release version is currently free at Smashwords) which should be released in about a week.  Maybe less.

I

I feel like I’ve been here before and it stops me in my tracks—which is a strange feeling since I know, perfectly well, that I’ve been here before.  But it wouldn’t be déjà vu if it was something tangible, and so I stand here, right before my classroom, a bag in each hand, and just… feel.  What exactly it is, I’m not sure.  Looking back and forth, down the halls, no one else is around, every door locked and shut.  A single molted cherry blossom petal falls from the top of one bag onto the freshly buffed tiles and I nudge it aside with the squeaking tip of my shoe.  And then, like steam from a kettle, the sensation vanishes.  Yeah, I’ve been here before.  Big deal.  And I unlock the door.

I expected the classroom to be a mess, but it’s perfectly orderly—in fact, it’s far more organized than I remembered leaving it.  She’d already put today’s date on the board.  April 29^th, 2007.  I stare at it and her meticulously neat, cursive writing; so perfect it’s almost difficult to read.  It was a simple and seemingly insignificant pleasure that I used to take from writing the date, a small but concrete reminder that one less day remained until the summer holiday.  After a moment’s deliberation, I make my first executive decision upon returning to work and grab the eraser, wipe the board clean with a single stroke, and rewrite the date in my own far-from-perfect printing.  April 29^th, 2007.  It seems like a good start.

Joan knocks as she enters, ‘How are you doing, Elliot?’  She remains just a few steps in, still by the door, as if she’s afraid of coming too close.  I’m contagious.

‘I’m good.’

‘Snuck in early?’

‘Yeah, I figured I should try to get a head-start on things.’

‘The kids are excited to have you back.’

‘It seems like this Miss. Palinkas did a good job, though.’

Joan nodded, almost regretfully. ‘She did, but you know, it’s not the same.’

‘Her handwriting is sure a hell of a lot easier to read than mine,’ I hold up a page from the daybook, her writing running parallel even though the page contains no lines.  My printing always drooped down as if the ground was giving way beneath me.  I know Miss Palinkas is young, younger than me, but judging from her cursive alone I’d think she was in her sixties.  People just don’t write like this anymore, I think.

‘Did she plan an easy day for you?  I told her to.’

‘I think so.’ I wince as I look at the page before me, ‘It’s kinda hard to read her writing.’

Joan shakes her head and releases a disparaging laugh, ‘Well, I hope you have a good day.  If it’s,’ she stops, clearly adjusting her choice of words, ‘If you need to go home, at any time, just tell me.’

‘You’re the boss.’

‘I’m just the secretary.’

‘Like I said, you’re the boss.’

The students don’t ask as many questions as I thought they would about my absence and they have clearly fallen out of habit from my old routines.  It takes less than fifteen minutes for the first ‘Miss. P always did—” comment, which never implies that her ways were somehow inferior.  Eleven year-olds clearly have a short memory and already Miss. P. was the teacher and Mr. B. is now the intruder.  I follow the day plans that she left for me, which were based on plans that I originally laid out for her, but like a copy of a copy of a copy, things have changed and now I’m out of touch.

By recess, I’m exhausted and it hasn’t even been two hours.  I don’t really want to go to the staffroom and make small talk, but I need a boost, I need some caffeine.  I am torn by this intense debate—as if I really thought that I could manage to get through the entire day without stepping foot into the staffroom.

‘Hey Elliot, how are you doing?’ Tracy asks and I reply with something vaguely positive while making a bee line for the coffee pot.  I pull a mug from the cabinet, retrieve the one that was either a gift or stolen from an auto-repair shop, and pour myself the last remnants of the coffee, asking—just to be sure, just to be polite—that it’s OK with everyone.

‘Just as long as you make a new pot,’ Cheryl informs me with a tone identical to how she would remind one of her eight year-olds to wash his hands after returning from the bathroom.  I am always nervous that as I age, I will lose the ability to adjust my way of speaking between children and adults.  It seems to be a condition that afflicts far too many elementary school teachers.

‘Yeah.’ I reply.

I expect a further volley of questions, but the ten or so people in this room are almost ignoring me and I’m fine with that; in fact, I’m quite pleased with that.  I tear open another package of coffee grounds, close the lid, click the button and think that I’m done.  I stand at the counter, holding my coffee, watching my colleagues, vacillating between taking a seat at the table or returning to my room for the rest of the day.

A firm hand slaps me on my shoulder, surprising me for a second.  It’s Paul, he calls me buddy with a toothy grin, asks me how I’m doing and I put my mug down onto the counter.  ‘I’m good,’ I say, like it’s obvious.

‘Your class must be happy to have you back?’

‘I don’t know.  They seem to think I’m doing everything wrong now.  Miss P. never did that!  It’s actually a little bit annoying.’

‘Ah, they’re just used to routines.  She was good, she really was, but you’re better,’ he says without conviction.

‘Really?’

‘Sure.’ He sounds even less confident, pats my shoulder again, and walks to the washroom.

I then feel something wet, a line across the small of my back, and step forward, craning my neck around only to realize that I’d been leaning against the lip of the sink.  ‘Shit,’ I mutter, knowing there are only a couple of minutes left before the end of recess.  I grab a dishtowel and try patting myself dry with awkward, contorted motions, and when I turn, my elbow knocks something—it hits my coffee mug, which promptly falls onto the floor by my feet.  Someone gasps.  Someone else then laughs and a few people clap.  Why do people feel the need to applaud—do they whistle in acceptance when a pigeon shits on someone’s shoulder?  I nervously smile and look down at the shattered mug, broken into four or five large pieces, coffee the colour of chocolate milk with splintered flecks of white porcelain.

And then I can feel my heart.  Just like that, I can feel each and every jarring beat like it’s a foreign object throbbing inside my chest.  It doesn’t belong.  I don’t move, I just stare, looking at the small puddle, those broken white ruins.  I know I should lean down and clean it up, but I don’t.  My heart is thunderous and my eyes glaze over.  Everyone is watching.  My stomach shrinks and my throat clenches up.  I hear someone mutter, ‘Why did you clap?’ and I try to cough, to clear my throat, to cover up my emotions, but my lips sputter and I have to wipe tears away from my cheeks.  I don’t look up.  I don’t need to.  Everyone is silent.  Everyone is watching me.  No one applauds now.  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and I try to laugh but I keep crying like I’m bleeding, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.  I might throw up.  I can feel it in my throat.  I can’t look up.  I can’t look at anyone in the eyes.  The bell then rings, four synthetic chimes, and I hurry into the washroom with large strides, right past Paul who steps back to give me a wide berth.  I lock the door behind me and stare into the mirror; my face is a mess, flushed and moist and weary.  I look like death.

I don’t want to talk about it, but when Elisha calls me at home for the third time in a single hour, I finally pick up.

‘So, how was it?’  There’s no greeting.  Those are her introductory words.

‘It was fine.’

‘You don’t sound like you were fine.’ I can hear her doing something else—typing, while talking to me.

‘What do you mean?  I just said that I was fine.’

‘Yeah, but there was a sigh there.  You weren’t fine.’

I don’t recall sighing before but I’m sighing now.  ‘It was fine.’

‘Don’t lie to me.  I’m your sister.  And I’m smarter than you.  What happened?’

That’s always been her line.  She’s smarter than me.  I wish I could say that it was incorrect.  ‘I… went home.’

‘Early?’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be something worth mentioning if I went home at the usual time, would it?’

‘How early?’

‘In the morning.’

She stops typing.  I don’t know if it’s because she’s giving me her full attention or if she’s simply reading something else. ‘What happened?’

‘I couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t go back.’

‘I told you so.’

‘Thanks.  You always have a way with words.’

‘No, but you have to take care of yourself.  I told you that.  Are you taking tomorrow off?’

‘I’m taking at least the rest of this week off.’

‘What about the rest of the school year?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You know Mom and Dad will help you out.  You know that, right?’

‘I don’t need any help.’

‘Oh, yeah, I forgot.  You’re good.’

‘Exactly.’

She starts typing again, always multitasking while on the phone (or, really, whenever interacting with anyone in any manner), but I know that she’s not really listening.  So I don’t say anything.

‘Why aren’t you talking?’

‘You’re not listening.’

She stops typing.  ‘I’m listening!  I’m the one who called you—three times, in fact.  I wouldn’t call you if I wasn’t planning on listening.  And besides, according to what you’re saying, you’re fine and you don’t need any help.’

‘Well, thanks for calling, Elisha.’ I want to end this.

‘Hey, Elliot, seriously, listen.’ She pauses, gives me a chance to stop whatever I’m doing as if she assumes that everyone works while talking on the phone.

‘I’m listening.’

‘You’ll be all right.’

‘Thanks—’

‘No, listen.  You’ll be all right.  You just have to give yourself time.  You’ve rushed into this.  You’ll be all right.  It just takes time.’

And for some reason I remember that shattered mug on the floor, coffee pooling along the orthogonal troughs in between the hazel tiles, the water endlessly running in the sink—and that feeling in my gut returns, my eyes well up.  It takes so little.  Just a thought.  Just a snapshot memory.  Elisha tries to assure me that I’ll be all right but all it takes is a stupid thought, distracted for a second, and I’m crying again.  I have to keep it together, I can’t let her know that I’m getting emotional or she’ll think it was because of her touching words and I’ll be damned if I ever grant her such satisfaction.  ‘OK.  Thanks,’ I say, clearing my throat, consciously trying to utter my words with as little emotion as possible.

‘And hey, why don’t you come by for dinner tonight?  Ryan’s making a lasagna and there’s always way too much for the three of us.’

‘But it’s not Sunday.’

‘Are you fucking autistic now?’

‘That was a joke.’

‘So, then?’

There is no way in hell that I’m going to drive forty-five minutes just to spend more time with my overbearing sister, her socially-awkward husband, and their likely-insane son.  No.  I’m much better off here, alone, in my townhouse, with my feet up on the coffee table and a burrito in the microwave.  ‘No, I’m good.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Oh, I’m sure.’

She sighs.  ‘OK.  Well, take care of yourself, Elliot.’  And I can tell Elisha is sincere.  She’s not typing.

 

II

I didn’t ever used to remember my dreams.  Friends would detail their absurd imaginary exploits to me but I never recalled anything significant about my own.  And while that morning was really no different—I remembered none of the details or events—I was left with just a feeling, an echo, some lingering emotion that struck me at seemingly random moments throughout the day.  I was in the shower, hardly moving, letting the water cascade down upon me when it first crashed into me like a wave: this nagging thought that I was forgetting something I shouldn’t ever forget.  On the bus to the university, I ran through a mental list of friends, wondering if I was forgetting a birthday.  Maybe an assignment or a test.  Something about my taxes.  But there was nothing.  I could feel it in my gut, sitting in class, my body reacting to what my brain didn’t understand.

“Are you OK?” Kenny Kong asked, strumming an electric guitar hooked up to an intimidating mixing deck before him.

“Yeah, I’m OK.  I just,” I shook my head, blankly staring towards the television with hardly any volume, “just felt kinda out of it, all day long.”

He stopped.  “You’re not fucking getting sick again, are you?  You’ve been getting sick way too fucking much lately.”

“No, no, I don’t think I’m getting sick.  Just.  Nothing.”

“You’re still good to go out tonight?”

“Of course,” I said with confidence, like it was a stupid question.  And he continued strumming, his attention once again drawn towards the knobs and wires before him, slipping his large headphones back on and pressing play on the drum machine.  From where I sat across the living room, the quiet and cyclical syncopated beats sounded like raindrops and methodically crinkling paper.

The girl took a seat beside Kenny and I was sure that I’d met her before, somewhere.  But as she surveyed the dozen or so other people at the table, her glance swept right past my own as if I didn’t exist.  She was quite pretty; her straight black hair draped like curtains down to her shoulders around her long face, her eyes bright and yet deep brown.  But she wasn’t really my style.  She was perhaps a little too skinny, her expression a little too dour.  I imagined her to be pretentious and cold.  But I was sure that I knew her from somewhere.  A first-year class, perhaps?  Back in Prince Rupert?  She looked in my direction again, not seeming to know many other people at the table, and noticed my dissecting glance before passing on a flickering smile.

It required me consuming another two pints before I called out over the table: “Sorry, how do I know you?”

She glanced over both shoulders just to make sure I wasn’t asking someone else.  “You don’t.  Did someone say I knew you?”

“No, but you look familiar.  You go to UBC?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you in Education?”

She laughed.  Stupid question.  “Uh, No.  I wouldn’t make a very good teacher.”

“What’s your name?”

“Sarah.”

That didn’t ring a bell.  Too common.  “What’s your last name?”

“Voorhees.”

Still nothing.  “Are you sure?”

She laughed.  Funny question.  “Yes, yes I’m sure that’s my name.  What’s yours?”

“Elliot Bergeron.”

She held her hands up in dismay as if there was nothing more to say.  “I don’t think we’ve met.”

I nodded although not at all in agreement.  “This is going to drive me crazy until I figure it out.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to figure out!”

“That—that’s just going to make me even more crazy.”

I spent the next ten minutes peppering Sarah with questions, exploring the details of her schooling, her jobs, her friends, her extracurricular activities… and still nothing.  I grew up in Prince Rupert, while she was from Barrie, Ontario, moving to Vancouver for university.  She lived in residence among people I knew nothing of.  She took classes in business and film-studies.  The only reason she came out that night was because she worked as a waitress with another one of Kenny’s friends.  There was no reason that I should have known her.  There was no way that I could have known her.  And so I apologized for wasting so much of her time, trying to spend the rest of the evening mingling with other people, thinking about something else.  As the group grew larger, we became separated and I had a few more drinks and almost—just about—stopped thinking about Sarah Voorhees.  And I knew that it didn’t make any sense.  And I knew that I wasn’t the type of person to obsess; but that only made me more obsessive.

Finally, on the way back from the washroom I was pleased to notice that someone had taken my chair and that one was free beside Sarah.  How serendipitous.  I took the seat but resisted the urge to ask her anything more about her past, pretending to listen to the conversation across the table, acting like I might interject at any moment with something witty, waiting for Sarah to ask me something.  Anything.

“So,” she finally got my attention, “you’re in Education?”

“You do recognize me!”

“No,” she shook her head, “you told me so already.”

“Oh.  Yeah.”

“Are you a teacher?”

“I’m a student teacher.”

“High school?”

“Elementary.”

She was clearly surprised and expelled a sound appropriate for if I’d run my nails over a chalkboard.  I wasn’t sure if her reaction was one of admiration or pity, although when people reacted to news of me training to be a teacher it was usually an equal mix of both.  “I would make a terrible teacher.”

“Yeah, you’ve told me that before.  Is that because of a drug-addiction or a penchant for aggression?”

“None of the above.  It’s something much simpler.”

“What’s that then?”

“I hate children.”

I nodded, “That would do it.”

“They’re just so annoying, and loud.  And filthy.  And smelly.”  She smiled, “You must think I’m a terrible person.”

“No, not at all.  Terrible is a strong word.  I think terrible should be reserved for malevolent dictators.”

“Good use of the word malevolent, by the way.  I like that word.  It sounds like it should be a flavour of gelato.”

“Malevolento.” I said with an admittedly terrible Italian accent.

“See what I mean?”

“Sounds tasty.”

Sarah sat up, running a hand through her hair.  “So, what am I then?  You know, if I’m not a terrible person?”

“You’re a bad person.”

She seemed to take a moment to deliberate my judgment, then nodded and shrugged.  “I can handle that.  What about you?  Were you one of those kids who always knew, as far back as Kindergarten, that you were going to be a teacher?”

I reacted as if insulted by her insinuation.  “Oh, no.”

“So, why then?”

I was about to answer when she quickly added: “Besides, of course, the holidays?”

She stole the words right out of my mouth, my lips still open but without voice.  I smiled and shrugged my shoulders.  “I thought it would be an easy job, although I’ve now realized that I was completely wrong about that one.  But you know, just because I’m training to be a teacher doesn’t mean that I’m going to be a teacher for the rest of my life.  I don’t know if anyone can do one job for ten, twenty, thirty years without going completely crazy.”

“So, what else could you see yourself doing?”

“I don’t know,” I found myself feeling awfully sheepish and nervous.  It always seemed easier to lie than to tell the truth, but after a moment’s hesitation, I did something unprecedented.  I was honest: “I’d like to write, I guess.”

“Like, a book?”

“Yeah.”

“You write?”

“Well, I’d like to.”

“Why don’t you?” Sarah asked as if I’d just admitted that I had always wanted to try Diet Pepsi but hadn’t quite yet found the time.

“Well, to start, I think it’s a lot of work.”

“Have you tried writing anything?”

“I’ve tried, but never too hard.”

“Well, I can tell it’s quite a passion for you.”

“OK, then.  What about you?  What do you want to do?”

“I want to make movies.”

“You want to direct?”

“No.  I want to get into the production side of things.  Trust me, I’m not an artist.”

“And how do you do that?  Get into the production side of things?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I kind of know, but it’s not very interesting to talk about.”

“Maybe I’m interested?”

“No, you’re not.  Talking about entry level jobs is not a very engaging topic.”

“Well, maybe someday I’ll write that book and you’ll be able to turn it into a movie.”

“Only if it’s a good book.”

“You don’t have faith in my talents?”

She half-heartedly repressed a wide grin, slowly shaking her head.  “Hey, you’re the one who thinks we know each other somehow—when we don’t—so don’t blame me if I’m a little suspect.”

Kenny was struggling to insert his key into the bike lock while I stood back, sipping from a pint that I’d managed to smuggle outside.  He staggered back a moment, aiming the key towards the slit in the lock, and then lunged forward as if to catch it by surprise.  He missed and cursed, “Fucking thing, I think it’s fucking broken.”

I took another gulp although I didn’t know why.  The beer was already flat and warm.  I was really drunk and didn’t need anything more.  But I took yet another sip and laughed, wondering how many times it would take Kenny Kong before he decided to give up and just walk home with me.  And then, for no reason at all, I threw the glass—a lathery trail tracing its arc from my outstretched hand to the asphalt just before us—where it shattered conspicuously loud so late at night.  Kenny clapped, understanding the unspoken need to break things while inebriated.

A woman then said: “Wow, I never knew you were such a rebel.”

I spun around.  It was Sarah and I didn’t know what to say.  Finally: “That looked pretty cool though, right?”

“Oh yeah, that was a real turn on.”

“Cool.”  I fidgeted with my hands.  Ironic, it was, that I suddenly found myself yearning for something to hold onto or sip from.  A beer maybe.  I had nothing else to say and continued to nod, fully aware of how uncool I was looking.

Kenny Kong, still holding the key firmly between his thumb and forefinger, then said, “Are you going to fucking ask her for her number, or are you just going to look like a dumb ass standing there?”

“I thought I looked pretty cool,” I said.

“No, you look like a dumb ass,” Sarah countered.

“Alright then,” I turned to her, “Would you like to meet up again?  Maybe, I don’t know, get some drinks and smash some glass?”

“Sure.”

I didn’t quite expect such an immediate reply and was soon fumbling to find something to write down my number with—when she pulled out a cell phone from her bag and fiddled with the buttons, holding it so close to her face that it illuminated her features with a ghostly grey blue.  I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of dismissive negativity: she had a cell phone.  I hated cell phones.  People with cell phones were people who figured that they were of vital importance to society as a whole.  They always needed to be on call.  People with cell phones thought they were like brain surgeons—the lives of innocent people were at perpetual risk if they could not be contacted.  I wanted to make a comment.  I wanted to ask her what made her so important that she needed to own a cellular phone.  But then she looked up, smiled, told me that she’d call me and that her bus was coming.  And away she went.

 

III

Her name sounds familiar.  I’m reading from a list of names on the PowerPoint presentation announcing this year’s new teachers.  I look around over the tables set up in the library, searching for fresh faces.  There are a few, but none of them look familiar.  But that name, Charlotte Palinkas, lingers like a nagging thought that you’ve left something behind.

She sheepishly grins when her name is called, sticking up her hand and waving, not saying a word before taking her seat.  She’s teaching grade three this year.  The principal goes on to the next new staff member, but I keep staring at her.  She looks young, she can’t be more than twenty-five—and it strikes me that I’m already old enough to start commenting on how young my colleagues are.  Her wavy oak hair has hints of strawberry that I suspect are unnatural, cut in a strange neo-bowl-cut that drapes down over her ears, framing her fair skin and clusters of freckles.  And then there are those ridiculous glasses: thick burgundy frames with wide pointed brims like the details on a mammoth American car from the 50’s.  Surely she can’t be taken seriously.  Is this a fashion statement?  Is this a new trend?  Ugly glasses?

The principal talks about all the new and exciting things happening this year, how much she’s looking forward to our new staff and how they will compliment the rest of us like nuts in a salad (her words are then met with a round of middle-aged clucks and chuckles).  She can tell there’s something special about this group, this year, and all the possibilities.  I’m sure she gave the exact same speech last year.  I really should know—I was here last year, likely sitting in this exact same spot at the back of the library—but I don’t remember a thing.  I wasn’t listening.  Just like I’m not really listening now.

I walk past Charlotte’s classroom an hour later, the place a haphazard mess of open boxes, misplaced furniture and scattered tables draped with posters and papers.  She’s straining to staple something to the back bulletin board.  I never noticed before, but she’s really short, not much more than five-feet, using a chair and still struggling to staple something that I’d be able to reach on only the tips of my toes.  I wonder if I should offer any help.  Her jeans fit her quite nicely.  This must look a little creepy.  I don’t have anything to say, I’ve already stood here too long, and after making sure that no one is around—no one is—I just walk away like I have somewhere else to be, down the hallway and up the stairs to my own, less cluttered, classroom.

I try to avoid the staffroom for the first few days of September because I really hate answering that question.  Although I’m no better, it should be stated.  I ask everyone the same thing: ‘How was your summer?’  Of course, there are those annoying go-getters who describe their expeditions in Costa Rican waters, weeks of solitude in lakeside cabins, ambling cruises up the Alaskan coast, and long road-trips to New York and Los Angeles.  Personally, I think they lie to make the rest of us appear apathetic and lazy.

‘Where in L.A. did you say?’ I ask Priya, who teaches some grade less than or equal to three.

‘Just in Venice Beach,’ she replies, a little too hesitantly for my liking.  I’m sure she’s lying.

‘A friend of mine lives there.  Where in Venice was the hotel?’

‘Oh, it was a little place on Rose Street.  Do you know it?’

OK, that sounds legit.  But she could have Googled that.  ‘How long did it take you to drive to New York?’

‘We did it over a couple of weeks, stopping in Calgary and Chicago along the way.’

I don’t know why I would have asked.  I’ve never driven across to the East coast.  I have no idea how long it would take.  And, really, what was I thinking?  Now I’ve just granted her the invitation to ask: ‘So, Elliot, what did you do?’

‘Oh, this and that.  You know.  Just hung out.’

‘Yeah, that’s cool.’  She knows exactly what that means.  I stayed home.  I watched entire seasons of downloaded cable-television series.  I took daily naps.  I went to the grocery store every day with intentions of cooking something involving fresh ingredients but more often than not ended up buying a frozen pizza and grating a little extra cheese on top.  It matters not about one’s zealousness or sense of adventure: in the end, we all waste the time we’ve been given.  In the end, it’s behind us, perpetually in sight but out of reach.  Other people find ways to squander their time through a whirlwind of activity; I just watch it tick, slowly, meticulously.  You may have great memories, but they mean nothing, because memories are as flimsy as fiction.  Just stories.  You don’t have them.  You just have this.  Now, right now, standing here in the hallway at school, we are equals.  We’re both way down at my level.

‘Sometimes those are the best days, right?’ Priya adds, ‘Just doing nothing.’

That pretty much sums it up.  I did nothing.  And she knows it.  And she knows why.

The view from my second floor classroom is dominated by the staff parking lot, which borders a row of ramshackle houses, a few in-fills that appropriately fill every square inch of developable space, and then the hazy peaks of the north shore mountains in behind everything.  I still don’t know which mountain in particular is at the forefront—and it doesn’t really matter because most of the year they are fully obscured behind a thick veil of murky cloud that tricks you into thinking there are no mountains, that it was all just a special effect.  It’s almost three o’clock, the first teachers are heading to their cars and so I figure it’s time for me to leave as well.  Then I see her, Charlotte Palinkas, carrying a couple of empty blue plastic bins to her car, her shoulders weighed down by her bag, and I hurry to lock up my room and dash down the steps out into the parking lot before she might leave.

I catch her as she’s shutting the trunk to her obnoxiously yellow hatchback, so bright it would make the McDonald’s arches appear dim.  She smiles when she sees me walking towards her but doesn’t seem pressured to converse, only wishing me a good weekend, to which I say the same but then quickly add: ‘Actually, I have to ask—your name sounds really familiar.’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember yours,’ she admits, ‘I get bombarded by so many on these first days that I don’t absorb any.’

‘I’m Elliot.  Elliot Bergeron.’

Clearly, I’ve rung a bell, her expression stalls, her head cocks, but she’s not sure.  ‘Yeah, that sounds familiar.’  Then she realizes.  ‘Did you used to teach at Forest Grove?’

‘Yeah.’  I know exactly who she is.  ‘You covered my class.’

She smiles, ‘Yeah,’ is all she can say.  Her expression is now strained.  We’ve both been given bad news.  ‘They were a good bunch of kids.’

‘They liked you.  I heard you did a good job.’

‘Thanks.’  She smiles, nods.  ‘Have you, how long have you been here for?’

‘This is my second year.’

‘Yeah.  Well, it seems like a great school.’

‘Yeah.’  I should end this.  ‘OK, well, enjoy your long weekend.  I’m sure I’ll see you around.’

‘Of course.  Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Bergeron.’

‘You too.’

 

IV

“I just had the craziest dream,” Sarah said as she rolled over, the first words out of her mouth in the morning.  I was still half-asleep and I didn’t really care to listen.  I didn’t want to be rude—just that I was so tired, so comfortable, and so desperate to fall back asleep that the very task of having to listen felt herculean in scope.  I nodded and mumbled something to vaguely encourage her on, but kept my eyes closed and tried to remember just what I had been dreaming about, hoping I could thrust a foot back into that closing door before it locked shut.  I remembered a parking lot.  A yellow car.  Ugly glasses.  Sarah started: “For some reason, we were living with Ed McMahon.”  She snorted a laugh, “He was always on the couch, but the couch was like a bed actually, right in the middle of the living room, and I was… I was pissed off at him.”  She expelled a weary chuckle, “I don’t even remember why.  But I was pissed off at Ed McMahon and wanted him out of our house.”  She was beginning to sound frightfully lucid, which meant that she was not even going to attempt getting back to sleep, that this stupid dream about Ed McMahon was reason enough for her to get up and make some coffee.  To use that accursed grinder.

I nodded, eyes shut, teetering dangerously close from half-asleep to half-awake.  “That’s funny, Charlotte.”

She was quiet and I thought that she was done, that I could get back to sleep if it wasn’t too late already.

But she wasn’t done.  “What did you just call me?”

I refused to open my eyes.  It wasn’t my fault that Sarah started talking to me at some ungodly hour of the morning.  “I don’t know.  Sarah?”

“No, you called me Charlotte.”

I remembered it.  I did call her Charlotte.  And I had no idea why, although I knew what was coming next.

She added: “Who’s Charlotte?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is that an ex-girlfriend?”

“No,” I winced and really didn’t think that I was getting back to sleep.  “No, I don’t think I know anyone named Charlotte.”

“Is it your other girlfriend?” Sarah asked with a hint of jest in her voice, although not nearly enough for me to continue facing away from her.  Feeling twice my own weight, I rolled over and shook my head, finally looking into her bagged but piercing brown eyes, “Yes, she’s my other girlfriend.  She has an apartment down in Seattle that I visit when you’re not looking.”

And Sarah smiled, “That’s what I thought,” she sat up, “I’m getting up.”

“I can see that.”

“You’re going to stay in bed?”

“I’m going to try to get more sleep.”

“How can you still be tired?”

“Weren’t you tired just a minute ago?”

“No, I’ve been in and out of sleep for some time now.”

“OK, well, you get up.” I put my face down into the pillow. “I’m going back to sleep.”

She gave me a quick kiss on the cheek and left the room with a disgusting amount of energy, not quite shutting the door behind her.  I sprawled across the futon mattress, directly on the hardwood floor, and exhaled a long, comforting sigh.  Now I could nestle in.  Bury down.  Enjoy the Saturday morning.  Waste away another few hours.  I just tried to think about nothing at all, to remember that dream.  And then I thought about that name.  Charlotte.  Like a mental Rolodex, I flicked through all the possibilities, any person that I might have known, but couldn’t think of anyone.  I heard the toilet flush and the tumbling water through the aged pipes.  The floors creaked as Sarah walked into the adjacent kitchen.  My eyes were open.  There was the running of water, a pause, some rummaging, and then that fucking coffee grinder.

The bedroom door squealed as it opened and Sarah looked genuinely surprised to see me.  “I see you’re up.  I thought you were going back to sleep?”

I held out my hands as if to welcome the entire world into my arms.  “The day awaits.”

We’d already had a few drinks when Kenny Kong arrived a half-hour late, which for him was actually about a half-hour early, and so Sarah and I were duly impressed.  “You’re early!” I said.

Kenny didn’t get the joke and looked at his watch, “Didn’t we say we were meeting at eight?”

“Yeah, never mind.”  I slid a glass towards him and filled it with the bottom quarter of the jug.  “How are you doing?”

“Yeah, good, good, good.  Had a great a day today.”

“What did you do?” Sarah asked, trying to make conversation.  Like most people, she felt a little uneasy around Kenny Kong.  Like most people, she didn’t know when his comments were jokes or insults or statements of fact or compulsive lies.  I’d known Kenny Kong for five years, three of which we were roommates, and I still couldn’t differentiate between these—although by default, a fair bet was to assume that everything he said was untrue.

“I finally broke up with Cynthia,” he said as if stating the weather.

“Oh.” Sarah said, clearly about to add, ‘I’m sorry,’ before waiting, unsure if this was real.

We all remained silent.  Painfully so.  Kenny nodded to someone he knew behind us and then took a sip of his beer.  “How was your day?”

I had to ask: “Are you serious?”

“About what?”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah.  We broke up.”  He shrugged and dismissively shook his head to signal that it wasn’t a problem.  Just a hangnail.  These things happen.  “You two ready to go out tonight?”

“I’m sorry,” Sarah finally added with hesitation.  It would be very much in his character to keep this up for another minute or so.  “I’m sure you don’t want to talk about—”

“Oh, no, she was just a fucking bitch.  I couldn’t take it anymore.  Don’t worry.  It’s for the best.”  He’d already downed his glass of beer and was displaying the empty jug up to signal for another.  And pronto.  “I’m really looking forward to tonight.”  Kenny was especially enthusiastic and I knew the reason.  I really hoped Sarah wouldn’t ask.

But then Sarah asked: “Are you OK?”

“Oh yeah, I’m great.”

“You seem a little wired.”

I closed my eyes shut, knowing what was coming next.

“Well, that’s probably on account of the coke I did before coming here.”

Sarah nodded before mumbling something and I awaited the inevitable conversation that would commence the moment he was out of earshot.

“You’re not going to be doing that stuff tonight, are you?  Coke and shit?” Sarah asked within seconds of him leaving for the washroom.  I shook my head as if this was a stupid question.  “I don’t want to be like the bitchy girlfriend here, but that stuff just rubs me the wrong way.”

“I know, I know.  As it should.”

“My last boyfriend—”

“I know,” I put my hand on her shoulder, “Don’t worry.  That’s just the way he is.  You know, he’s Kenny Kong.”  I pronounced his name like it was an adjective unto itself, encapsulating instability and inappropriateness.  Ken or Kenny (and definitely Kenneth) just couldn’t do his character justice.  He was Kenny Kong.  “Don’t let it freak you out.”

“Just how many drugs does that guy do?”

“Pretty much all of them at some point.”

“And he functions?”

“No one functions while intoxicated quite like Kenny Kong.”

“How does he afford all of it?  When’s the last time he held a job?”

I sighed, “He doesn’t hold jobs because he doesn’t want jobs because he doesn’t need jobs.  He has friends.  He has connections.  It’s what he does.  He makes connections.   And he gets high.  Not necessarily in that order.”

“Doesn’t his intensity just wear you out, sometimes?”

“Yeah, it does.  Sometimes.  But he’s a friend.  And he’s coming back.”

Sarah smiled towards him as he squeezed behind the passing waitress.  “How can anyone possibly piss that fast?”

I yelled into Kenny’s ear: “You might want to go easy on the drug references in front of Sarah,” I leaned back a few inches, waiting to see if he might reply, but instead he merely nodded to the driving beat, taking another sip of water from the plastic bottle on the table before us, overlooking the small dance floor.  “Especially cocaine.  It really freaks her out.”

“She doesn’t like it?”

“Ah, her last boyfriend… he was an ass apparently, and I don’t really want to know much more about ex-boyfriends than that.”

“But she’s OK with ecstasy?”

“She’s—” The fingers of my left hand were kneading my right forearm like a content kitten settling in for a nap.  I felt fantastic, quite literally.  “She’s OK. Not pleased, not pissed, just OK with it.”

Kenny nodded again—constantly nodding—and it was impossible to tell if he was acknowledging me or simply moving with the music.  The fingers of his hands fondled each other incessantly like he was on a third date with himself and he relished in another gulp of water.  The beat then dropped away, leaving only the throbbing, synthetic bass.  Kenny yelled into my ear: “So, you think it’s gonna last?”

“What do you mean?”

“With Sarah?”

“Well, we are living together.”

“And until today, Cynthia was living with me.”

“OK then.  I guess, yeah.”

The bass began to swell in volume and pitch and someone screamed with gospel acceptance.  The beat was going to return.  Kenny then looked at me, “Yes, what?”

“Yes, to your question.”

“What was my question?”

“You asked if I thought it was going to last, with Sarah.”

“Oh yeah.  So you think it will?”

“I don’t know.  I have a good feeling.”

“You do?” Kenny started clapping along, lifting his hands into the air as if conducting the music.

“Yeah,” I replied, not nearly loud enough to be heard, and not that it mattered.  Everyone on the dance floor seemed to cheer and Kenny couldn’t take standing still any longer.  He didn’t need to say a word.  He hurried towards the crowd before the climax—when the beat returns from its exile as hero and everyone lifts off the ground for just a few moments that feel both timeless and vital but really mean nothing at all.

 

V

‘You hate wine, why didn’t you bring something you like?’  This was how Elisha welcomed me to her house.  Those were her first words.

I wait to get inside and am about to curse until hearing that Mika is close.  ‘I’ve told you before that I don’t hate wine.  I quite like wine with dinner.’

She looks at me like I’m lying—and what motivation I would have to lie about enjoying wine is beyond me.  But then again, I’m not a doctoral candidate; what would I know?  ‘If you’d rather have a beer, just bring beer.’  She says this to me like I’m one of the proletariat.  I should be drinking beer.  I’m pretending to be something I’m not when I drink wine.

‘But I like wine.’

‘Really?’ She clearly still doesn’t believe me.  Ryan then appears from the kitchen wearing one of his standard monotone sweatshirts, the colour of which could best be described as strip-mall stucco beige.  Really, what better way is there to sum up a man than to say he wears beige sweatshirts?  It seems to say so much with so little.  He shakes my hand, appearing a little nervous as he always does when around me or any other human being.  Mika runs past and tugs at the elastic waistband of his pants, nearly pulling them down to his underwear, and Ryan sheepishly smiles before asking me why I brought wine.

‘I like wine.’

‘Oh.  You do?’

I say hello to Mika and he pauses for a moment, staring at me with what looks to be deadpanned shock before whooping and running down the stairwell to the basement where his hollers and screams continue muffled through the floor.  Ryan says nothing more to me, instead following Elisha into the kitchen leaving me alone mere inches from the front door.  And for just a moment, I think I should do the right thing and run away.

Years ago Elisha hoped to start a new tradition: for the Bergeron siblings to have dinner together each Sunday evening, even if it wouldn’t be for long, even if it would only be for an hour.  Quite quickly this weekly tradition slipped to once a month, and then once a season—but in this last year Elisha had become almost religious in her zeal for the ritual.  Every Sunday.  No matter what.  Really, what else do you have to be doing?

And to that, I have no answer.

I pour some wine for myself at dinner—after waiting more than an hour beforehand in the living room, watching Mika run up and run away, rarely ever speaking, instead making sounds one would expect from a hyperactive donkey.  This is the four year-old product of a doctoral candidate and an actuary.  Elisha fiddles with her Blackberry and laughs about some text message before putting it away.  ‘OK,’ she says to convince all of us that she’s really done.  But we all know that she’s not.

‘How is school going,’ Ryan asks.

‘Just twenty-two left.’

‘Days?’ He looks to the calendar, almost furious.  ‘Until what?  It’s only October.’

‘No, years,’ I reply, ‘until retirement.  Just twenty-two years.’

Elisha quips, ‘Remind me never to send Mika to your school.’

Mika is currently under the table and growling.  I’m actually nervous about moving my feet too quickly for fear that he’ll pounce like a skittish kitten.  ‘Thank you for that, then.’

‘What’s that?’ Elisha asks.

‘Nothing.’ I take a large gulp of wine.

‘Do you ever think you might do something else?’ Ryan says with food still in his mouth.  He always talks with food in his mouth.  No wonder he doesn’t do anything about his child’s apparent intent to gnaw on a guest’s ankles.  ‘Twenty-two years?  That’s a long time to wait until retirement.’

I slowly shake my head.  I’ve thought this many times before: ‘No, I really don’t think so.  I’m pretty much institutionalized at this point.  I’m not capable of performing anything greater for society as a whole.’

‘You’re so depressing,’ Elisha interjects, already looking back at her Blackberry.

‘But seriously,’ Ryan tries to reign me back in; he pushes up his glasses and looks stern.  He’s ready to help me out here.  He wants to cut through the thick layer of sarcastic dejection that tightly envelops me.  Good luck, actuary.  ‘You’re still young.  You could go back to school.  You could do something else if you hate your job.’

‘Oh, no, I don’t hate my job.  I just have nothing greater to offer humanity.  Not all of us are cut out to calculate life expectancies.’

‘But what would you rather do?  What do you do with all of your time off in the summers?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Then why don’t you want to work?’

Elisha laughs, and I expect her to make some snide comment, but she’s only texting.  Mika has galloped out from under the table and is in the living room dumping out toys onto the floor.  I want to go home.  And do nothing.  Just like when I retire.  In twenty-two years.

‘Didn’t you used to want to be a writer?’ Ryan adds and I try my best not to scowl.

‘I used to think that I used to want to write.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Oh, you used to write,’ Elisha is very sure of this, not even making eye contact with anyone at the table. ‘I remember, back when you were in high-school, getting up early in the morning.’

‘What’s this?’ Ryan asks.

It’s only once I’ve brought the wineglass to my lips that I notice that it’s empty.  ‘I don’t really want to get into that right now.’

‘Then why don’t you try writing again?’ Ryan asks, the Elliot Bergeron intervention apparently in full swing.

‘I’m…’ I’m angry with Elisha for helping continue this conversation even though she’s still on her phone.  ‘I don’t know what to write about.’

Ryan seems ready to say something, but his lips seal and he nods slowly, almost as if to a beat.  Elisha giggles about something and then mutters, ‘OK,’ before putting her phone away.  ‘What were you saying?’

Elisha is back on her computer in the office and Ryan is pretending to watch the hockey game while actually immersed on the laptop before him as Mika completes what I estimate to be his twenty-third lap of the living-room-to-dining room-to-kitchen circuit.  I sip from the last drops of wine, watching Mika race around, his socks limply holding onto one foot and completely absent from the other.

I survey this living room, this amazing house of Elisha and Ryan’s—thick, aged wooden beams running across the ceiling, stained-glass decorations above the dining room windows, elaborately carved trim surrounding every doorway.  The narrow street outside is flanked by massive trees towering far above the sharp wooden roofs of the Arts and Crafts houses below, their autumn canopy the colour of mango skins, sidewalks covered with wrinkled leaves the size of dinner plates.  It always angered me that people like Elisha and Ryan—people who can afford to live in these neighbourhoods—never actually take advantage of living in these neighbourhoods.  They sit on their laptops or computers.  I like to believe that if I were in their position I would do things differently.  I would go to the ocean every day, just to see it, just to ensure that I never take it for granted.  I would buy all of my produce from fruit and vegetable markets.  I would stroll down to Broadway and savour a pint and read a few pages from a book on a weekday evening or maybe even try writing something again.  And I would walk—walk along these streets, amazed by the trees that grow so tall, so lush, that it all feels enchanted.  This can’t quite be real.

I don’t even make an excuse.  I just say, ‘Well, I’m going now,’ and push off from my chair.  Elisha tells me that I have to say goodbye to Mika before parting but when I find him he immediately dashes towards the crawlspace.  ‘Well, at least he’s going to be just fine in the unlikely event of a tornado,’ I say as Ryan hurries after him at a frantic pace, surely nervous of what might happen if he gets into the crawlspace.  Elisha has already returned to the office, finishing that dissertation that she’s been months away from completing for several years now (I once referred to it as a thesis to which she promptly informed me that such things are for Master’s degrees only: “When you’re completing you’re PhD, it’s actually called a dissertation”).  I walk out towards my car, the drizzle wafting down almost weightless, and remember something Sarah said once about when she experienced her first Vancouver winter—how strange she found this falling mist, that you couldn’t really see it unless passing by a streetlight, that you couldn’t really feel it until it’s coating your cheeks.  “Is this really rain?” she asked, “or is the air perspiring?”

 

VI

“We should bring some wine,” Sarah advised, like it was the right thing to do, like she really shouldn’t have to tell me this.  “It’s polite.”

I looked at the wall of bottles before us, books in a foreign language library, and I knew nothing about any of them.  There were red ones.  There were white ones.  There were ones in between.  “Why the fuck do we need to bring wine?  When did everyone start drinking wine?  No one used to—and then, suddenly, people are saying, ‘Oh no, I’ll just have wine tonight.’  When the fuck did everyone start playing grown-up?”

Sarah shook her head, “But I think Elisha likes wine, I’ve never seen her order a beer.”

“She used to.”

“And what?  You somehow feel besmirched by this?”

“I—never mind.”  I wasn’t exactly sure what besmirched meant, figuring it had to do with being in love.  “Just pick something for me, then.  But don’t get anything expensive.  Not that I’m cheap, it’s just all the same in the end.  No point paying more for the same thing.”

Sarah knew at times like this it was best to ignore me, and that was exactly what she did for the next several minutes.

Elisha’s apartment was actually Ryan’s apartment—she’d moved in six months earlier—on the eighth floor of an old high-rise that looked like a concrete ruin from the The Jetsons, the once-sharp corners now softened with thick moss, the exterior streaked with black and green algae.  “It’s so nice of you to come,” Elisha welcomed Sarah, thanking her for the wine, “Wow, I can tell you’re a good influence on Elliot.  He never brings gifts.”

“My company is a gift.” I replied, walking down the narrow hallway, past the open door to their unadorned bedroom, past the galley kitchen and into the living room where Ryan was in the process of putting away his textbooks.

“Hello, Elliot.”  He welcomed me, unsure for a moment if he should shake my hand.  He instead stood erect and nodded once.  “You’re, doing well, I presume?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” I smiled and continued on towards the balcony door.  The drapes were closed.  The drapes at Ryan’s apartment were always closed and I wondered why one would bother renting an apartment with huge windows and a panoramic view just to leave the blinds shut?  “Do you mind?” I asked, motioning to look outside before heaving the old sliding door open and stepping out onto the shallow overhang, just above the naked treetops that shrouded the street below.  I leaned onto the metal railing and looked out towards the mountains, the ski-lights illuminated through the wispy ceiling of cloud.  It always amazed me how quiet it was, in the middle of downtown, right here.  I wished that Sarah would be willing to move into a high-rise, but she hated elevators and couldn’t imagine taking one every single day, up and down, to and from anywhere.  In Barrie, people don’t live in apartments.  So this was my routine upon entering Ryan’s apartment: taking a moment to relish in the view, the quiet, suspended hundreds of feet above the ground.  Just a few solitary seconds before reentering and being forced to deal with my sister for the next hour.

“Oh, I’m going to be done in four years, max.” Elisha replied, almost annoyed with Sarah’s suggestion that her PhD might take longer.  “If I work really hard at it, I’ll be done in three, but no more than four.  There’s only so long that I can handle being a student.  Sometimes I wonder just what the hell I was thinking going back, yet again.”

“But, you love being a student,” I said, “I couldn’t imagine you actually having a job.”

“Thanks, Elliot.  Your kind words are always appreciated.  But seriously, there have been times, just this last September, when I thought—what the hell am I doing?   Am I actually going to stay in school for another four years?”

“At least.” I added.

“At most.” Elisha assured.  “It’s all part of the plan.  PhD, then tenure, then baby.”

I always shifted uneasily when Elisha spoke about having a baby—and not because I thought she’d be a bad mother or because it forced me to imagine her and Ryan copulating (copulation seemed to be a much more appropriate term for the two than sex).  I’d squirm because of how she presented it all; it was always part of a linear plan, like driving instructions.  PhD, baby, tenure.  Turn left, drive to the lights, and then right.

“What about you,” Elisha looked towards Sarah, “are you two thinking about kids yet?”

“Oh, Jesus,” I muttered.  I was about to tell Elisha to give us some time, that we’d only been together for a year, that she’s sounding far too much like a great-aunt for a 27 year-old woman.  I was about to say this.  But then I remembered something.

Sarah grinned, politely shook her head, and said: “Oh, no.  I hate kids.”

“You’ll change your mind.”

“That’s what everyone says, and I’m sure you’re right.  But it’s Elliot here who will probably want them before me.  He’s the one who wants to be a teacher.”

Both Elisha and Sarah looked towards me expectantly.  But I merely nodded, suddenly taken aback by this strange memory, the crispness of it, the detail of it.

“Are you OK?” Elisha asked.

“Yeah.” I always hated it when people talked about their dreams.  Was this any different?  “Yeah, well.  I actually just remembered a dream I had last night.”

“You never remember your dreams,” Sarah added.

“I know.  I don’t.  But I remember this one, just now.  I was at your place,” I nodded towards Elisha, “and you lived in a house, a really nice old, character home, in Kits, or something.  And you were married to Ryan.  And you had a boy, a young boy, probably like three or four years old.  And I was over for Sunday evening dinner.  And we sat and ate dinner.” I nodded with increasing fervor, pointing towards Elisha, “And you were still working on your fucking PhD!”

The three looked at me expectantly—waiting for Acts II, III, IV and V.

So I concluded: “And then, after a little bit, I drove home.”  Granted, it wasn’t much of a dénouement.

“That’s it?” Elisha asked, clearly unimpressed.  And I couldn’t blame her.

“Yeah.  But, it didn’t feel like a dream.  It was just so,” I looked for the word, “mundane.”

“I think he just made it up,” Elisha added, chewing angrily as if the chicken’s nerve endings were somehow attached to my own, “just to piss me off.”

I laughed, “So let me get this straight: you’re mad at me for something you did in my dream.  That’s impressive, Elisha.”  It felt as real as something that happened to me last Tuesday.  There were no illogical leaps.  Nothing defied the laws of physics.  I never opened a door to an undiscovered room.  I opened the front door and it led to a yard.  Across the lawn, there was a sidewalk with tall trees.  Under one of those trees was my car.  And I remembered being bored, sitting in their living room, time slowing to a crawl, wondering just when I could get out.  I hardly ever remembered my dreams, but I’d remembered enough to know that this was different, and I sat at the dinner table, not bothered by what was surely an awkward stretch of silence as everyone waited for the punch line.

And then Sarah asked, “So, what about me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was I in the dream?”

 

VII

I look at Charlotte from across the table.  It’s funny.  I’ve worked with her for almost a year.  I’ve seen her nearly every day.  Never before did I feel that she was unattractive—but she always seemed a little misplaced, as if her proportions were off.  Whoever designed her had good intentions but was a little sloppy in execution.  Perhaps it had to do with her hair, that strange take on a bowl-cut that seemed like a desperate attempt to be ironic.  And, of course, there were those glasses.  Thick, horned-rimmed burgundy plastic with embedded rhinestones, or something like that.  Those glasses defined her.  If you had to describe her to someone, the first thing you’d say is “The girl with the glasses” and that would easily suffice.  Everyone would know.  She tried too hard to play up the garage-sale aesthetic and it didn’t do her any favours.  So, perhaps it’s due to the beer, the two pints that are under my belt (quite literally brooding in my bladder), but as I stare at Charlotte, I’m attracted.  I’m caught off guard by this, wondering how I never noticed this before, as if physical attraction is like an unusual laugh—something you don’t notice right away.  Until it happens.

I look at Charlotte from across the table, she catches me staring and I smile politely and look away.

Then I ask, ‘So, what’s up with the glasses?’

She reacts as if I stopped halfway through a joke.  ‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, let’s be honest.  They’re,’ I tried to think of a kinder word than retarded, ‘unusual.’

‘That’s quite the compliment.’

‘But, you do realize they are different.  I can’t think of anyone else I’ve met who has glasses quite like that.’

Charlotte now seems to be fighting off a scowl but I’m still smiling, trying to impress upon her that I don’t mean to be rude while not really caring.  Funny, I think, how just when I’m caught off-guard by how attractive I find her, I say something that I knew would be taken as an insult.

‘Well,’ she slowly begins, ‘I’m not sure how to answer that question.  I guess I have to say that I’ve never thought about what is up with my glasses.  So, I’m sorry, I guess I can’t give you an answer.’

She’s clearly pissed and I shrug and take another sip of my pint.  I don’t want to apologize.  I’m certain that it doesn’t matter if she’s upset with me or not.  Those glasses are ridiculous and she really should have been able to give me an answer.  But I relent.  I’m a good person.  ‘I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to be an asshole.  I just thought it would be something to talk about.’

‘Really?  Is that what you normally talk about?  Someone’s glasses?’

‘They do stand out.’

‘You should probably just be quiet now.’

I huff a weak laugh that is supposed to show that I’m not bothered but really says that I’ll do what I’m told.

Our group starts departing The River’s End fifteen minutes later.  People don’t want to have more than a couple of drinks.  It’s a quarter past five in the evening and we’re done for the night, a typical Friday afternoon teacher social comes to an end with everyone settling up separate bills on separate credit cards.  Someone asks me what I have planned for the weekend and as I struggle to think of an answer, I realize how rare it is for me to hear that question anymore.  They know better.  ‘Oh, not much.  Just going to relax,’ I say, my old standby.  It translates into: “Nothing.  Please don’t embarrass me by asking again.”

Out in the parking lot, I hurry up towards Charlotte to apologize again.  That is my plan.  But after getting her attention with a preliminary, ‘Hey,’ I suddenly don’t want to.  ‘I hope there’s no hard feelings.  I really didn’t mean to sound like an ass.’

‘OK.  Thanks.’

‘I’m not an asshole, usually.  I guess I might have come across as one there.’

‘You might want to work on your ice-breakers.’  She unlocks her hatchback and her eyes still tell me to fuck off and not bother her any longer.

But I don’t listen.  I stand by her car, nodding, my eyelids twitching from the droplets of rain that splatter on my cheek and forehead.  Charlotte doesn’t even seem to notice the rain.  Perhaps those glasses have their purpose?  ‘What do you have planned for the weekend?’

She waits and seems to expect me to say something more before replying: ‘Is this your way of saying sorry?’

‘It’s my way of asking what you have planned for the weekend.’

She expels a brief, disheartened laugh.  ‘Well, since you’re asking, I’m going down to see a show at the Commodore tonight with some girlfriends of mine.  And not much else.  Dinner with the boyfriend’s parents.  Boring stuff like that.’

I nod, like I’m really interested, like her use of the word boyfriend didn’t jostle me at all.  ‘Who are you seeing at the Commodore?’

‘I don’t even know who it is.  I’m trusting my friends that it will be good.  Do you have any plans?’ she asks but immediately recoils, regretting asking me anything.  After all, what place does she have in asking a fucking thirty-two year-old widower about his plans?

‘No, not really.  You know, just relax.’

‘Yeah.’  She seems ready to apologize but merely motions towards her door.  ‘Well, see you on Monday.  Have a good weekend.’

I get home just before six in the evening and struggle to think of reasons why I should stay awake.  The two pints have worn away any enthusiasm I felt after finishing work for the week and now I’m spent, a burnt match.  After two fucking pints.

I shouldn’t have gone to the pub after work.  It only ever makes things worse.  I have a couple of drinks with a bunch of people who all have their own friends, their own lives, and their own loves.  One’s got to get back to her kids, another is driving to Kamloops, someone else has a party to get ready for, or a movie to watch, or dinner to prepare, or a game of children’s soccer to applaud.  These are all boring people who don’t like having more than a single drink for fear that they might get drunk—but at least they have friends and business and events and people and all I have is this fucking townhouse.  I wonder how long I can sit on this sofa without music, without the television, without calling anyone, without falling asleep.  How long can I sit here, staring towards the flickering projected flames of the electric fireplace, listening to the bathroom fan whir, the occasional bump and rattle from the neighbours shutting their doors, the muted thuds of footsteps on their staircase?  How long can I listen to myself exhale, watch my chest heave, wiggle my toes, my legs outstretched atop the coffee table?  How long can I just sit here until I fall asleep?

It’s so difficult to break out of these thoughts once they start.  They consume me and I wish I could just take a Paxil and get it over with, as if it were ever that easy.  I shouldn’t have come off.  I shouldn’t have strayed.  Just stop thinking, I think.  How fucking ironic.  I stare straight ahead and try to distract myself like I’m four year’s old.  But I need to accept.  When Sarah died, I was left with nothing.  While the rest of the world continued all around me, I remained right here, burdened by my own mass.  While people laugh and go on road trips and have family dinners with their boyfriend’s parents, I sit on a couch and stare at my feet and want to sleep or maybe just end it all.  I laugh at how quickly it all comes together.  How quickly I return to that horrible thought that I have nothing to live for.  How simple and trite and powerful and selfish and utterly unavoidable.

Snap yourself out of it, I say to myself, as if all that’s bothering me is something fragile and weak, a thin brittle film to be molted from.  Snap yourself out of it.  But it’s not something in front of me or surrounding me, or even inside me—it is me.  That is the problem.  I am the depression.  I am that coil, so tightly wound it no longer unravels.  I am the funk.  I am the hell.  I am the shit.  And I blame this on Sarah.  I want her to see what she’s done to me.  What’s left of me.  What a mistake it was devoting my life to one other person.  How naïve.  Because what happens when they’re taken away?  What happens when you’re left on your own?  This is not something to be molted from, this isn’t a layer that will be left behind, brittle and fragile.  This is my mind.  This is my heart.  This is my burden, and I will carry it until I die.

I should get up.  I should get out.  I should do something.  I should go for a walk.  I should listen to music.  I should call a friend.  I should write a book.  I should visit Elisha.  I should sell this fucking townhouse.

I’m tired but I’m not going to sleep.  It hasn’t even been two years and right now all I can think of is one simple, powerful and endless thought: “Can you really do this for the rest of your life, Elliot?”

Of course I know the answer.