A Victim of Uncertainty

He was walking late at night on a country road he didn’t know. The warm summer breeze gently caressed his face, calming his otherwise frayed nerves. He had a definitive purpose. He used to do this when he was much younger, unencumbered by what seemed in this moment to be a lifetime of disappointment.

There he was, somewhere among fields of barley and wheat, briskly making his way to the nearby water tower. He wasn’t sure what he would do when he got there, but he’d know when he arrived.

Earlier in the evening he was having a mild panic attack, reminded as he so often was these days, of heartbreak. He was walking in a haze with a noose tightening around his chest. Before long, if he wasn’t careful, he knew it would envelop his entire being, and he could do nothing but wait until it passed. He had been paralyzed with that clenching feeling for most of the past two years. It was entirely unpleasant. Instead of stewing with it though, lately he had taken to walking for hours on end. He had tried other strategies: meditation, running, playing the guitar. But none of these quite satisfied his urge to escape his mind at a leisurely, down-tempo pace. That’s why he was headed to the water tower.

The two of them had broken it off several years beforehand, for all intents and purposes quite mutually, but for reasons completely beyond him, they were still lingering, calling each other back at the first sign of retreat. On this night, he imagined a trite silent movie in which one of two main characters continuously cried as soon as the other left the room, only to be comforted time and time again. Back and forth, back and forth they both went for the entire film, laughing and then crying, laughing and then crying, waiting for that loving hand to reach out and care for them in their desperate time of need. That was it, he thought, my life feels like a room of tears. On the rare occasions, tonight being one of them, when he felt he had some perspective, he wanted nothing more but to escape his addiction, perhaps check himself into a rehabilitation unit, but he was quite unclear whether one could do that for an addiction to emotions, an individual, to turmoil. On this night he wanted to turn away from the car wreck that was his ultimate love, and to live, finally free of its hold on him.

That’s why he had had such high hopes for Sam. They had met in a downtown park only days beforehand, in a downpour not unlike most summer thunderstorms. The sky screeched a dire warning, clapped its hands with all its might, before unleashing the light show. They both ran for cover under the nearest picnic table. There they were, him in his oddly bedazzled pleather shoes and straight pants on his way to the library, Sam all decked out in the latest running gear, training for the upcoming 10k run.

They hit it off right away. He impressed with his wit and charm, while Sam reciprocated with an equal dose of humour. After ten minutes, the storm subsided, but they didn’t notice. After thirty minutes, they both commented on the drying conditions, but neither of them made a move to leave. In fact, they nearly cuddled under the table, smiling at each other’s marvelous weather perception.

So their day went, two hours in the park, over half of it ducked under a picnic table talking about weather patterns, the humidex and what exactly a barometre was. The next hour was spent in a trendy café in a gentrifying part of town, more Sam’s style than his, but the rich fair trade coffee did smell quite good. The last three hours were spent in Sam’s basement apartment, steamily getting acquainted with the most intimate details of their anatomy and sexual preferences.

While he was a decidedly good lover, on this day, he was outstanding. He dove in head first, regaling himself in Sam’s pleasure. Upon leaving, he was rather impressed with his proficiency. It was the first time he had ever had sex with a more or less complete stranger, and he felt alive. That night he walked home to his decidedly more humble abode, listening to his summer playlist on his walkman. James Brown and Parliament were serving up some classic funk.
**

A week later and he was out walking in the middle of the night, with the express purpose of figuring out what to do about Sam, and about love more generally. In the days following their original encounter, Sam grew increasingly obsessive, to the point where he was afraid of what might lie ahead.

The last time they spoke, Sam had a series of questions ready for him. The night before he had declined an invitation to come over for sex, preferring instead to spend time with his best friend. Apparently this didn’t sit well with Sam.

“Where exactly do you see this going?” There had barely been a hello on the end of the other line before the barrage of questions began.

“Well, to be honest, I hadn’t put much thought into it yet. I was just sort of going with it.” He was a bit stunned.

“Oh, I see.” Sam sounded hurt. “Well, I’m asking you to think about it, what are you looking for?”

“Ummmm. Well, if you insist. I suppose I’m still working through some difficult feelings from my last relationship, so I’d say I’m looking to keep things pretty chill.”

“What does chill mean?” Sam was clearly getting agitated.

“Chill means fun, light, not very heavy.”

“I see, so what you mean is casual and open to other people?”

He was getting a bit perturbed. “Well, I’m not sure I would’ve put it that way, but yeah. Nothing too serious.” Given the turn of events, he thought this might be the safest route.

“Ah, okay…” There was a long pause before Sam said anything else.

“Is everything ok?” He wasn’t sure what to think at this point, but was trying to beat back his urge to hang up before things got too heavy.

“Yeah. This just gives me a lot to think about. I’m used to these short, sexually intense flings that lead to nothing meaningful. In fact, that’s all I know. And I want to get away from that. And you’re irresistible to me. And, well, I just need to think about all of this some more.” Sam said the last sentence in what seemed to be tortured syntax.

“Ok.” He was now talking in his soft, caring voice. “I get that. Let’s not have sex anymore then. I’d be happy to be your friend…” He sort of trailed off, not really sure that’s exactly how he felt.

“Look, I’m going to think about this some more. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Ok, call me soon.” He was feeling an odd sense of sadness. He couldn’t place it, but he knew that this was coming to a rather premature end.

“Yeah. I’ll call.”
**

That was four days ago. He hadn’t heard back from Sam, and had a feeling that he wasn’t going to anytime soon. There was something in the way Sam’s voice quivered that night that told him it would be over.

What had begun as a hopeful encounter seemed to have ended in a decidedly anti-climactic manner. That was unfortunate in itself, but what made it even more complex was that it led him directly into the waiting arms of his always caring ex.

At least, it did have that quality to it. In the three years since their break-up, they had both failed miserably at re-igniting the passion they have for each other with another. They never said so outright, but both could tell that the late night or early morning phone calls were a sure sign of their longing. They also knew that these desperate attempts to pull each other back were at best unsettling. At worst, they were unhealthy to the core.

It was to this confusing uncertainty that he returned to over and over again in his mind. He was sitting in his house trying to fight off the reckless urge to call her one more time. The thoughts were assaulting his senses, and whipping up a frenzy of emotions. He was mildly panicking. Should he enter into the house of tears and ignite a fire? He knew all too well that he could do it. For reasons completely beyond him, only she has ever inspired such passion in him. He both loved and hated her for it.

That was when he headed for the door donning his thrift store-issued trucker cap, his long black hair neatly tucked underneath.
**

As he approached the water tower at the end of the dirt road nearly two hours after he originally set out, storm clouds began gathering menacingly over-head. The stars scurried for cover, and he stopped in the middle of the road. Looking up, the first raindrop brushed his chin, eventually dropping onto the front of his sweater.

And just so, the fire he had been feeling a few moments before went out. He knew instantly that there’d be no late-night phone call tonight. It was all he could do to move on, to feel fully human again. He knew it all too well in this calm, pre-storm atmosphere.

“Please let go. Please.” He heard himself whisper these words, just as the wind kicked up, signaling the arrival of the impending rainfall. He walked silently back down the road towards his country home, hoping that he’d be caught in a mighty downpour. This time, however, he wouldn’t cower beneath a table. He’d wait it out, absorbing the full force of every blow.

Luckily We Have Empire- Part 3 of 3

Check out Part 1, "The Hickey" & Part 2, "The Horse Hunt."

Back in the Colonies

Back downtown in the colonies, the two lovers rose slowly from their deep sleep. They had punished each other passionately all night, and felt they deserved a long slumber to rest their aching bodies.

They awoke simultaneously, not unusual for this odd pair, and he went straight to the washroom. He was, after all, the proud owner of one of the smallest bladders in the commonwealth. Upon discovery of the sinister brownish, yellowish, blackish, purplish marks on his neck, arms and chest, the boy grabbed for his clothes, and hurriedly left the girl's apartment yelling ever so loudly, "Help, help, help, a vampire has sucked my blood!"

The yelling punctured the early morning silence, and she jumped out of bed, as sexy as ever in her tight blue t-shirt. She looked around her apartment, but could find no signs of the beast. From her balcony, she blew her boy a kiss goodbye as he climbed onto his bike. She couldn't understand why he was holding up a clove of garlic with his right hand, and brandishing a stake in her general direction with his left, muttering something about Bram Stoker. He had always been a little strange, she thought, but boy oh boy, could he give her great orgasms, which is where her mind wandered to as he drove off. She asked herself, loud enough for her downstairs neighbour, who was working on harvesting her pot plants on this fine fall day, to hear: "When is he next going to bury his head between my legs? When?" After repeating that about five times, she finally heard herself and thought that her sentence structure sounded a bit queer.

Once at his place, he searched frantically for something to cover up all traces of his encounter with the said vampire. He didn't want to be identified as one of them, he knew he only had a few hours left before he became one of the walking dead. He chose a red jacket he bought in London town several months beforehand. Upon zipping it up, he looked at himself in the mirror, and thought, Damn, I look good in this jacket. Why the hell don't I wear it more often? Maybe now I will.

He pranced around his house for the rest of the day, taking every opportunity to catch a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He never once thought about vampires again. In fact, his thoughts were pre-occupied with fantasies about his next trip to London town, where he saw himself buying a dozen more jackets and making out with the Queen Mum, who he had always had a repressed crush on.

An encounter on a London bus

Climbing the steps up to the second floor of the bus was so novel, foreign really. He loved it. Hannah looked at him and asked, half-jokingly, “Are you afraid of heights?” He looked away, wanting to hide his laughter. After all, he was the funny one, not her.

“Yes,” he replied seriously, “Can I go back to Canada?” She returned the favour and chuckled, almost giggled.

Chris and Martia had already sat down. They were facing the front of the bus, leaving Hannah and Georg to sit facing them. The London buses were so cozy in this way, he had only seen this type of set-up on trains in Canada, never on buses.

He was in a jovial kind of mood, and began his rant as soon as he sat down.

“Can you believe that guy at the squat? He just assumed I was American, didn’t even bother asking or nothing. I had to tell him, straight up: ‘You don’t want to be making that mistake with Canadians, we’re a bit sensitive about that.’ Anyways, I was just kidding really, but not. I mean, I didn’t want to come off harsh, but it really isn’t something you want to do. It’s not endearing, that’s it.”

She chimed in, a bit annoyed by his arrogance: “You need to understand that you sort of sound alike, Americans and Canadians, you have a certain twang. I sure can’t tell the difference between you. It’s not meant to be an insult…”

He didn’t miss a beat: “Sure, but you need to understand that we don’t like it, at all. Even though I think of myself as an anti-nationalist, I still don’t like it,” his voice was now getting louder, “it has something to do with American imperialism, you know?”

Just then he looked up and noticed a cute boy looking at him, a few seats behind Martia. He looked amused, a big grin spreading across his face.

Georg took this to mean he had an expanded audience: “So, it’s not that I think all Americans are bad people, in fact, I know they aren’t, it’s just that Canadians aren’t Americans!” He said this, rather amiably, but forcefully.

Hannah’s turn: “Alright, alright, I’m not daft. Take it easy. There’s no conspiracy against you, at least not that I know of.” She laughed at this, they all did.

Georg looked up and saw his new friend, with the short-cropped blond hair, laughing too, hardly concealing his surveillance. Georg fancied his smile. He was no longer paying attention to Martia, who was going on about gay men’s fashion sense, or lack thereof. What did she know?

The two boys stared at each other on the second floor of bus #345 from Camberwell to Shoreditch for what seemed like minutes, but was only 3 seconds. Georg felt an electric energy surge through his body. He looked away, smiling, got up and walked towards the boy with the too-cool hair. He sat beside him and looked him in the eyes.

“You seem quite interested in our conversation. What gives?” He was smooth, coy and confident even. He surprised himself.

The cute gay boy leaned over, and whispered into his ear: “I’m an American.”

Georg felt his voice travel up and down his spine, he almost shuddered, but he played it cool. He smiled broadly at this, thinking back at what he might just have said about Americans. He decided it didn’t really matter. “Not a good time to be one of those, is it now? Gay and American in another country, that’s rough.” He looked away, concealing his laughter. “At least you’re cute.” Oh yes, Georg added to himself, this boy is hot.

“I’m Eric, from Chicago. And I think you’re pretty cute too.” Georg felt his stomach flutter.

“I know, I could tell, why do you think I came over?” Georg is now having a good time with this. He’s been waiting for months to muster up the courage to approach someone he fancies, but getting over his previous relationship has been a long and tedious affair. He’s relishing this burst of sexual energy.

“I’m Georg, from Canada, but you already know that, don’t you? What are you doing in London?”

“I’m an architect, I’ve been here for 3 months, just decided it was time for a change.”

“That’s brave of you. Time for a change in London, eh? What are you doing now?” Georg doesn’t really know where this is headed, but it feels good nonetheless.

“I’m going to a club called On the Rocks. They have a trailer trash night, sort of indie-like. I’ve never been, but my friend swears by it. Trailer trash, how can you go wrong? What about you, where is your crew headed?”

“To be honest, I have no idea. I’m just along for the ride. Somewhere in Shoreditch for some hip-hop night or something. I usually always know where I’m going, but in London, I just follow people around, it’s a bit strange, but it works ‘coz I get to see a bunch of shit I’d never get to see otherwise. For example, I love these two-story buses, they’re so cool.”

Right then they look at each other nervously, the tension building in a bit of an awkward silence. Georg feels like leaning in and kissing this cute boy, but decides against it for now. Who knows who’s watching him on this bus? Instead, he continues to talk, he is a good storyteller after all.

“I’ve been here for 5 days, staying out near Camden Town. This is my first time going out on the town though. I’m quite excited, though I don’t really know what I’m getting into,. We just went to this squat in Camberwell, they had this queer night where most people weren’t queer, with this American woman from Portland playing the slide guitar, it was a very strange scene. The food was good though, veggie chilli with cauliflower curry. Nice mix.” He looks over to find Eric holding back laughter. “I’m glad to see I’m amusing you. Was it something I said then?”

“No, no. Sorry, it’s what you haven’t said.”

The words just sort of hang there, lingering there between them. They both smile broadly, as their hearts beat a bit faster. And faster still…

Luckily We Have Empire- Part 2 of 3

Check out Part 1,"The Hickey."

The Horse Hunt

Upon hearing of Charles’ death from one of the caretaker’s in the stables the next day, Wanamaker resolved to act on her desires, as Charles always told her to, and the next time she took The Mum for a ride, she ran feverishly, neighing wildly, and jumped the fence at the northeast corner of the royal horse yard. In effect, she kidnapped The Mum, much to the latter’s absolute delight. This unleashed a horse-hunt the size of which had never been seen before in the history of the British Empire.

Wanamaker and The Mum were able to evade the authorities through the help of a series of resting places and good Samaritans who believed in the power of love. They called themselves “The Rainbow Coalition against Britain” or RCAB for short. For several months they traveled through the British countryside in this manner, staying with other horses and some people, eating delectable country meals and neighing all night under the stars, until one day they reached their destination in northern Scotland, in a desolate sound, where the people there, all Scottish nationalists, had a long history of aiding fugitives from British rule.

This, however, was the first time they aided a runaway horse and monarch, and they were understandably tickled at the idea of having The Mum herself stay amongst them, which she did, until she died peacefully in her sleep, with Wanamaker at her side, seven short years later.

The English authorities never did gather any credible information as to the whereabouts of The Mum, and after two weeks of searching, the Royal Family released a brief press release declaring that the Queen Mum had died in her sleep the night before at the ripe old age of 105. They preferred this option over explaining to their subjects, that, in fact, their prize-winning filly, who loved The Mum and her now deceased trainer dearly, had kidnapped her, and that they had no idea where to find either of them.

The queen was so upset at the turn of events that she became quite paranoid for her own safety and that of her grandchildren. On the eve of The Mum’s funeral, she called the British Prime Minister and ordered him to launch pre-emptive war against three of Britain’s largest former colonies, as she suspected they had something to do with her mother’s disappearance.

The Prime Minister dutifully responded. That afternoon, he got on his Blackberry and ordered air strikes over Calcutta, Mumbai and New Delhi on Saturday, over Nairobi on Sunday and over Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver on Monday. At his press conference on Tuesday after the impromptu bombings, he muttered something intelligent about the British military only using smart bombs that limited casualties in highly populated urban cores. When a Canadian reporter asked him why Britain had bombed Canada, a long-time ally and a member of the elite club of Anglo countries that dominate world politics, the Prime Minister almost shuddered in disbelief.

“Canada? Oh sweet, sweet Jesus! That wasn’t our intention at all. That was a mistake, we didn’t mean to bomb other white people. I mean, we were…aiming for somewhere else, but there was a miscalculation, some misinformation that led to a decision that wasn’t quite what we were looking for. In fact, it was credible information about the whereabouts of a very important person, a VIP, and I acted on it somewhat in a haze, and I really thought that our smart bombs would just scare them, you know, smoke them out, as it were. I hope that those evil-doers in Kenya, Canada and India, with their shady, dangerously unpredictable transnational network of, well, like I said, we had credible intelligence about the role the Canadian Prime Minister was playing in fomenting things we don’t like here, and I can’t really say much more, except we regret that thousands of innocent civilians died in Canada, and of course, we think that India will be fine and that place in Africa we bombed will probably recover in the very near future. But the important thing is that we just made the British people feel safer, and if my Mum in Lancashire will sleep better tonight, then, you know, strategically bombing Toronto’s transit system was most likely worth it in the end. Next question please.”

Everyone in the room looked around in utter disbelief. The Prime Minister had once again forgotten to do up his fly before this all-important press conference.

Luckily We Have Empire- Part 1 of 3

The Hickey

Last night, in the concealed darkness of a downtown evening, a girl, whose name has not been released by the authorities, sucked on her boy so passionately that she left permanent marks on his neck, arms and chest.

Upon hearing this news during her weekly briefing on the goings-on in her majesty's colonies, the Queen Mum gasped in horror and peed herself. Luckily, Charles Tupper, her horse trainer, was there with a bedpan and was able to conserve most of the yellowish urine for her next physical examination.

"Good Lord, Charles, what are you doing down there between my legs?" The Mum was heard screeching. "If you're going to be down there, you might as well do it right, like that girl in the colonies, goodness, she knew what she was doing, didn't she Charles?"

Charles, looking up at her yellowed, aging long-panties, could only whisper, breathlessly, "Yes, she really has the right shit, I mean, stuff, doesn’t she? Have you ever had someone suck on your neck, your majesty?"

Confused, The Mum looked down at this man, her horse trainer, and asked, somewhat incredulously, "Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Charles? Have you been harming the horses?"

"Oh no, dear Mum, not at all, their necks are much too high for my tastes. But yours, on the other hand, is just my height..."

The suggestion lay heavy in the musty, stale air of the powder room. The Queen Mum stood there, upright, thinking about what mascara she should wear to her afternoon tea to cover up her flustered cheeks, while Charles, kneeling between The Mum’s feet, looked down into the ground at the remaining pool of liquid, his heart pounding so hard he was afraid The Mum would feel a tremor through her long-panties. His thoughts wandered to Wanamaker, their prize-winning filly, and the feel of her fine neck hair against his smooth, supple lips. His heart raced faster, and a copious amount of blood fled to his extremities, hardening them in a way he only experienced around The Mum and Wanamaker.

Why couldn’t that filly be rubbing up against The Mum as I looked up her skirt, he thought to himself. “Is that wrong?” He heard himself say this out loud, and felt mortified. His face turned purple, the same colour, in fact, as the many varicose veins running up and down The Mum’s inner thighs.

“Oh no Charles, this feels just right. Just right. All I need is a little bit more sugar in my tea, if you know what I mean, dear…” She purposefully let her last word linger there, like a hanging chad, a flirtatious exhilaration not often seen in 105 year old monarchs. “Yes, indeed dear, more sugar would be fine, I already lost all of my real teeth, so there’s really no chance of rotting them anymore, thank Jesus.”

Charles’ heart beat even faster, until it beat no more. The thought of yellowing long-panties, purple varicose veins, Wanamaker’s brown fleshy fur and The Mum spraying urine for him, was too much. He lay there, in The Mum’s pee, his body flailed about, face down, leaning against The Mum’s inner calf.

His last thought was of Wanamaker galloping valiantly through an open meadow near Inverness, slowing down at the approach of The Mum over a green knoll, pulling up beside her, neighing sweetly as she lay her head on The Mum’s broad left shoulder. The look on The Mum’s face was of pure bliss, a smile spread across her blushing face from cheek to cheek. They stood like that for what seemed to be hours in his mind, but was really only three seconds, until his heart beat for the last time, sending him into cardiogenic shock.

Tonight Will Be Fine- Part 2 of 2

Check out Part I, before scrolling down. Or be crazy and don't.
**
He looks over at her, with that mischieveous smile she loves so much. He's thinking this is nice, sitting on the picnic table, looking at the stars together.

"Why are you smiling? What are you thinking about?" She's half-joking, she knows full-well that he won't say.

"Let's walk, that's what we're here for, isn't it." He gets up off the table.

"Sure, that seems about right. It is a bit cold out, walking would be good." She likes the idea, they were a bit too close on the table, she could hear his breath, and the last time she remembers that, they were in a movie theatre, naked from the waist down, his breath in her ear. She liked the walking idea.

"Well, what is it? Why did you kidnap me in the middle of the night? What's so important?" She's pressing, not sure what to expect, she never has been, and realizes that might be why she can't let go.

"I already said, it's nothing like that, I want us to be friends. And I don't know how to make that happen. But, this could be a start, no?" He's not sure that's what he wants, but given everything that has happened recently, he's not ready to suggest anything else.

She decides not to reply. They continue walking, and she slides her arm around his shoulders, and pulls him close. He looks over, smiling, glad they're here together, not sure what to do or say next.

"Look at the moon, it's wonderful." She's smiling now, her arm no longer around him, but still walking closely, closer than most friends ever will. And they both know it.

"Yeah, it's nearly perfect." Another of his mysterious smiles spreads across his face.

He turns to her, and catches her smile. "You better be careful, you might stop being so mad if you keep it up, and who knows what happens then." He's teasing her, he knows he can get away with it now by the look on her face, and more importantly, by the way she's touching him.

"Don't tell anyone, ok? I have a reputation to keep." She matches his wit, as she always has. He's impressed. That's why I love her, he thinks quietly to himself.

They walk, arm in arm, for another 30 minutes, without saying a word. Down side streets neither of them have ever been, in the darkness of the early morning, now just past 430am.

“Hey, give me a hug." She turns to him, and holds her arms outstretched. They embrace, tightly, strongly.

"I really like the feel off your coat, is that corduroy?" He whispers in her ear playfully.

She pulls back. "Yes, it's corduroy." She speaks in a voice she knows she has only ever used in his presence. She's not sure how she feels about that. But being in his arms is heavenly, that much she knows.

"Ok." He says it smiling wildly, laughing a light laugh, nearly under his breath. They’ve somehow stumbled back onto the car. He looks over at her. "This is good. Let's go." He wraps his arm around her waist, while she pulls him closer from around his shoulders.

In the car, they both sing passionately, like old times, and enjoy each other's company fully. Like only old friends and lovers can.

They pull up to her apartment, and look at each other. He turns and gets out of the car, walks to her door and opens it.

"You're opening the door for me?" She seems touched, but is actually wishing they had sat there longer, listening to music and talking.

"Yeah I guess." He was actually getting out to give her a hug, because doing it in the car would have been awkward and he knows he wouldn't have been able to drive away. "Give me a hug."

They stand there, at 530am on a September Saturday morning, with a hint of light on the horizon, the stars about the fade until night falls again, holding each other, rocking slightly side to side. Rocking, and not letting go. Finally, after a long embrace, they move apart. And she leans in, kisses his right cheek gently, while caressing his face tenderly. He feels her love, and she sees it in his eyes, following her every move.

They smile, and he walks away. "Bye." He waves, meekly, unconvincingly. "I should go."

She looks at him, across the hood of the car now, and says, "I don't want to leave your car. I don't want to leave." She can't believe what's coming out of her mouth.

"Neither do I." He stands, looking at her, chewing his lower lip. They look at each other like this, him chewing his lip, her smiling nervously for what seems to be minutes, but in a matter of seconds, he climbs into his car.

They wave to each other as he pulls away. A couple of minutes later he turns onto the highway and drives towards the eastern sky just as the light begins making its full effect. He catches the last star in the sky, one they had remarked on during their walk. He remembers looking over at her shining face while she was looking up at the sky, and being moved almost to tears by how beautiful she looked in that light. Oddly, he feels an intense sense of happiness.

She walks up the stairs to her apartment, stairs she first walked up with him, and she's reminded of those times, when he was happy, light, when they were so in love. When she gets to her apartment, she sits on her couch, and thinks about the times they had in her space. She wishes he was there with her now, in the shower, hot, sweaty, so she can watch him, his body, and see him watch her, desiring her. She misses his touch so much. She lies her head on her pillow, and yearns for his warmth next to hers, for his touch on her back, his loving caress, his body, tightly against hers, his deep breath on the nape of her neck, his loving words in her ear. She falls asleep, exhausted by the turn of events.

Tonight Will Be Fine- Part 1 of 2

They find themselves in a park, under the cover of darkness, just down the street from where she lives, and where he used to. They're sitting on a picnic table, awkwardly close, he thinks, yet so very comforting.

Only hours before, he was struck by a debilitating crisis of loneliness, and sought her out like he had so many times before. It was past 130am when he finally reached her. "L? is that u?" He had written her when her online status had flashed on his screen. He was going to call, but decided that it was a bit much to call past midnight, so he decided to message her instead, all the while questioning the wisdom of such a move.

"d? yes, it's me, what do you want?" She was being cold, not ready to forgive.

He thought that it sounded a bit harsh, something he had never experienced from her, but given recent events, he understood. "To chat?" He feels like a cat prowling, undeterred.

"Ok. First, let me be clear, what are your intentions, your motivations?" She was being firm, she had been burnt too many times before.

He pauses for a long time, unsure how to answer, he was expecting this to be a bit easier, lighter.

"d? Did you get my last message?" She will not let her question go unanswered.

"Yes. Just thinking...give me a minute."

Five more pass, while he's going over every possible way he could answer that question. He decides on something that's only marginally satisfactory, but no words seem to capture his feelings.

"I could say a lot of things I suppose, but I'm writing you because I've been thinking about you, and wonder how you're doing. We haven’t spoken in a while.” He leaves it at that, somewhat suggestive, but also kind.

"Fine, I was mad as hell, you know that, don't you?" she replies, but the interrogation mark seems out of place, strange since she's so clearly trying to make a bold statement. "And I don't really know what we could have to say to each other.”

His heart sinks. "Yeah...” He was hoping she'd be in a laughing mood.

"Look, it's nice to know that you care, but what do you want exactly? I'm still not clear." She's in no mood for games, something she told him last time they spoke, over two months ago now.

He's stuck, so goes with something easy. "It's nice to know you're, well, alive sounds so dramatic, but that you're around and well." He feels sheepish. Around and well, how lame, he thinks to himself. We should be talking in person, I'm way better in person, and if I see her, maybe I'll know what to say.

"Let's go for a walk now." He feels bold, and isn't entirely sure how she'll react, but he feels confident about being able to handle her response.

"It's late, and I live far..." She leaves the door open purposefully.

"And I have a car..." He thinks his poetic response deserves some serious consideration. "And I'm cute, and we haven't seen each other in a long time." He's trying humour again.

She thinks about this for a few minutes. She's upset she's even considering it. But she can't help herself, she feels madly connected to him, it's something she has never been able to explain to him, to herself, to others around her who question her, who judge her for constantly hanging onto something with so little potential.

"Yeah, I'll go for a walk with you." She's surprised at how easy this has all been. Just an hour before she had been out with her new lover, out having an exciting time, she felt alive, strong, like she had been dealt a great blow and moved on, untouched, unharmed. Moments before he messaged her, she was thinking of how empowering it was to be falling in love again. And now they were going for a walk, at 230am.

"Where should I meet you? I can be there in 15 minutes. Does that work?" He presses on, wanting nothing else but to see her, perhaps as a test, perhaps to fulfill some fantasy.

"Same old. 149.”

"See you then. Meet me out front."

"Ok." She's now feeling pangs of anxiety in her stomach, entirely unfamiliar of late. She hates that feeling, and associates it with him, and the pain she has endured for the past year. And he'll be on her doorstep in minutes.