the snow in my boots behind her. Its not true. I am really speaking to
her. It's just that there is no prior context, segway or introduction
to what I am saying, and the words never have anything to do with
either us. They are simply thoughts pushed on to another's ear while
walking; as if the movement through the streets under the white rigid
boughs of trees that were before houses makes the uttering [of these
thoughts] easier and the thoughts themselves clearer. Without taint
from context or location. You can say anything while you walk easily
somewhere. But she, almost on que will spin her head halfway towards
me and bark, but somehow kindly: "Are you talking to yourself?". To
which I may reply: "Yes", or "No, I was just talking". And so we move
down the streets this way towards her house and a stiff mattress that
sits on the floor of her childhood and teenage room under a grand
triptych window that looks anticlimactically out into the bricks of the
house next door.
Pigeons coo softly at a ledge somewhere near the window. She swears
she no longer even hears them but I can picture her screaming at them
some night long ago after she has fought with her parents.
We lie on this mattress until one of us awakes and wants to make love
so that we may fall asleep again, hopefully deeper this time. And so
the day moves this way until the lights of the late afternoon show on
the bricks [outside the draped window]. I go downstairs and drink two
beers while she drinks one. We talk our way beautifully through the
beers. The first meaningful conversation of the last twenty hours. I
will pour the last sips of beer from above my tilted head and then
literally squeeze the last drops from the can so that you can hear the
drops hit the pool of the last sips that sit somehow in my gullet.
When I swallow, it tastes like beer should taste. But before I swallow
I let out half a syllable of a giggle that causes the most miniature
of geizures to splash four drops of beer up from my throat onto my
upper lip that I lick off lecherously once I put my head down.
And just before the sun drops behind one building in the downtown and
after the last drops of beer have been licked of my lip I leave for
home and she leaves for cigarettes. And we cross the street to the
edge of the valley, which is the edge of the park, which is the edge
of the hill that slopes down into the valley and eventually into the
river before climbing the wooded area of the other side into Rosedale.
She lights her cigarette and hardly anything is said. Except for a
plea from me to take the broken toboggan that has been jammed into the
garbage and slide down the hill together. It looks functional enough
but she says she's not drunk, and will hurt herself.
Our hours end here. I kiss her half on the lips and half not, finding
the corner that makes the smile. Wishing her a happy New Year, turn
and walk, not for home yet but for the greasy spoon where we ate
breakfast and where my flask slid from my jacket's pocket after I
slung it over the chair next to me. Silver, silently falling to the
cushion next to me. When I get there the owner says he saved me a drop
or two. I thank him for everything again: the time, the steak and
eggs, the flask and the few drops he left me.
He said: "Are you ready for this world?" and then cracked his can
open. He clanged it against the beer he had just finished and said:
"To The Past" then smashed it into the beer she was drinking and said:
"To The Present", then subtlety lifted his can ceremoniously in the
air and said: "To The Future" before breathing in a large gulp. And
when he had poured the last sips into his mouth from above his head
and squeezed the last drops from the same height letting them splash
into his gullet he giggled once causing four drops to shoot shortly up
and land on his upper lip. When he put his head down he licked his
lips clean of the last drops, put his beer can down and said: "I
should leave, you have to get on with your life". And she said
nothing, so he left. And this is how they left each other forever. A
day of happiness followed by no tomorrow.
------------------------------
She often catches him quietly talking to himself as he walks timidly
on the snow in his cowboy boots behind her. Its not true. He's really
speaking to her. It's just that there is no prior context, segway or
introduction to what he is saying, and the words never have anything
to do with either of them. They are simply thoughts pushed towards
another's ear while walking. As if the movement through the streets
under the white rigid boughs of trees that were before the houses
makes the uttering easier and the thoughts themselves clearer; without
taint from context or location. You can say anything while you walk
easily somewhere.
But she, almost on que will spin her head halfway towards him and
somehow kindly, bark: "Are you talking to yourself?", to which he may
reply, "Yes", or "No, I was just talking". And so they move down the
streets this way towards her house and a stiff mattress that sits on
the floor of her childhood room under a grand triptych window that
looks [anticlimactically] out into the bricks of the house next door.
Pigeons coo softly at a ledge somewhere near the window. She swears
she no longer even hears them but he can picture her screaming at them
some night long ago after she has fought with her parents.
They lie on this mattress until one of them awakes and wants to make
love so that they may fall asleep again, hopefully deeper this time.
And so the day moves this way until the lights of the late afternoon
show on the bricks.
He goes downstairs and drinks two beers while she drinks one. They
talk their way beautifully through the beers. The first meaningful
conversation of the last twenty hours. He will pour the last sips of
beer from above his tilted head and then literally squeeze the last
drops from the can so that you can hear the drops hit the pool of the
last sips that sit somehow in the gullet. When he swallows, it tastes
like beer should taste. But before he swallows he lets out half a
syllable of a giggle that causes the most miniature of geizures to
splash four drops of beer up from his throat onto his upper lip.
And just before the sun drops behind one building in the downtown and
after the last drops of beer have been licked off his lip he leaves
for home and she leaves for cigarettes. They cross the street to the
edge of the valley, which is the edge of the park, which is the edge
of the hill that slopes down into the valley and eventually into the
river before climbing the wooded area of the other side into Rosedale.
She lights her cigarette and hardly anything is said. Except for a
plea to take the broken toboggan that has been jammed into the garbage
and slide down the hill together. It looks functional enough but she
says she's not drunk, and will hurt herself.
The hours end here. He kisses her half on the lips and half not,
finding the corner that makes the smile. Wishing her a happy New Year,
turns and walks, not for home yet but for the greasy spoon where they
ate breakfast and where his flask slid from his jacket's pocket after
he slung it over the chair next to him. Silver, silently falling to
the cushion next to him. When he gets there the owner says he saved
him a drop or two. He thanks the owner for everything again: the time,
the steak and eggs, the flask and the few drops he left.
cg
