The Friends You Haven't Met

Paul couldn’t believe he was waiting for a girl named Ocean. It was a stupid name. The vestige of hippie parents, he was sure. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. When she had slid into the booth, predictably late, he’d thought there was something stuck in her hair, a fallen leaf or errant feather perhaps, but when she flung the wild tangled mass back he caught a glimpse of black leather lacing wrapped around a braid and realized that the colourful object was intentional. He was glad he had stifled the impulse to lean forward and gently tug it from the nest of her hair. The rest of her seemed similarly out of place amongst the ripped jeans, wife beaters, plaid shirts and trucker hats most of the other patrons at the bar wore. She was wrapped in some floaty loose fabric that rippled with each of her movements. He was almost embarrassed for her but she seemed oblivious to her conspicuousness in the midst of the blue collar crowd, immediately launching into some elaborate ramble, not even pausing to say hi, the moment she slid into the vinyl booth. He wasn’t paying very close attention to the story, the sports highlights were playing on the TV just above her head and they kept pulling his focus, but the gist seemed to be something about an amazing bakery she’s discovered and something about gluten free products. Thank God she still drank beer despite her apparent wheat aversion. He didn’t think he could handle her chatter without a thin membrane of alcohol between them.
She drank as fast as him, continuing the story about the bakery between hearty gulps that left a foam mustache on her upper lip. Occasionally she would lick at it, a furtive catlike gesture. She had small lips but they were not thin. A little bit like a rounded heart or a ripe plum. He wondered what it would be like to kiss them. He didn’t really think he wanted to. It was just idle curiosity, like when you wondered what it would be like if the power went out or if the car in the lane next to you suddenly veered into your lane. He was sure kissing her would be more pleasurable than the car scenario. The more time he watched her talk, the more he became convinced she was beautiful. If only she would stop talking about gluten free pastry. She raised her arms to emphasize a point and he caught sight of small bush under her arm. Ok and maybe shaved.
They’d met at a jam session in a vacant warehouse. Mark had convinced him to go, telling him he need to let off some pressure, to return to a time when music was fun. He was skeptical. A jam session sounded like a synonym for hippie fest, not his scene. He was right about the first part but it had been more fun than he’s expected and then Ocean had approached him all gentle and sweet, complimenting him on his guitar skills and his beard and though he’d known it was all ridiculous bullshit it had felt good. So, he had complimented her on her drumming though he hadn’t actually heard it at all and suspected it was probably just spastic pounding. They’d hung out in the parking lot with Mark for a while after, smoking a thin joint that kept going out, giggling as they re-lit the thing for the tenth time. She wasn’t his type but with the shitty way things were going with Lindsay lately it had felt good to have his ego stroked a bit. When Mark finally called it a night, he’d asked for her number, not really intending to ever use it but just wanting to know he could get it. He wasn’t sure what had made him call her today. Maybe, again, just wanting to know he could.
Ocean paused. The pause grew into a full stop. She was finished her story and apparently expected a response. He wasn’t sure how much he had missed and didn’t have the energy to fake it.
-I’m going for a smoke. Can you watch my beer?
-Filthy habit but it’ll give me a chance to slip roofies in your drink.
Her sarcasm caught him off guard. Weren’t hippies supposed to be all peace and love? He grinned, enjoying the surprise and the suggestive nature of the comment.
- Knock yourself out.
The air outside was cool and grey, a nice change from the packed heat of the bar. He searched in his jeans pocket and found his lighter amidst the crumpled bills and receipts. He tapped his smoke on the window ledge, leaned back one foot resting on the bricks, and lit the smoke. He inhaled deeply enjoying the rush of nicotine as it cut through the fogginess. Shit, he should really call Lindsay.
She answered on the first ring.
-How’s your whore?
He exhaled, harder than he had intended, and almost started coughing.
-I don’t get it? I thought you hated dirty hippies and now you’re hanging out with this skank.
-Fuck. I don’t know why I bother telling you anything. She’s just a friend. I could have snuck around behind your back but I was trying to do the right thing. And I call you. To be nice like. And this is what you say to me?
- Forgive me for not falling all over myself in gratitude. The right thing, right.
-Fine, fuck, forget it. Have a great night Lindsay.
-When should I expect you home?
-I’m not sure you should.
-Paul!
He hung up. Why the hell had he thought calling her was a good idea? He butted out his smoke on the bottom of his shoe and flicked it into the street. Shit, why hadn’t he bought gum on the way? Maybe the bar had mints.
Back inside, Ocean was deep in conversation with the waitress. He paused to watch them as he dug through the glass bowl of mints at the hostess’ station. They were both hunched over the table as if they were sharing intimate secrets. He walked back towards them. The waitress looked up, smiled at Ocean and left with a small wave. As he passed her, the waitress raised her eyebrows in his direction. “Lucky man. She’s a really firecracker that one.” Ocean overheard and laughed, shaking her head in a show of embarrassment and modesty. “Friend?” he asked.
-Maybe, if you buy the whole thing about strangers being friends you haven’t met yet.
A strand of hair was stuck to her lip. He resisted the urge to reach over and brush it off. Instead, he scratched his chin, fumbled with the wrapper on the little mint and popped it in to his mouth. “So… how late are you thinking of staying out?” he asked, holding the mint in his cheek.
-Depends how the night goes. What did you have in mind?
This was probably a good moment to call it a night.
-There’s a nice park on 12th. Kind of overlooks the city. We could grab a few beers and…
He stopped himself from finishing the sentence with watch the sunset. It was too cheesy. It was a bad suggestion really. He and Lindsay went to that park often to drink pilsner and eat cheap takeout. The evening would taste of betrayal no matter how it finished.
-Your girlfriend won’t mind?
Was he that obvious or had Mark said something? Or maybe he had mentioned Lindsay and forgotten. He paused too long, scrambling for an answer that was cryptic enough to avoid lying outright. She read his silence.
-Ah, so you do have a girlfriend.
-Uhhh. Sort of, I guess.
Ocean half laughed.
-Sort of?
He fumbled for something clever but she stopped him before he could grab at the thread of a sentence.
-Don’t worry. It’s cool.
-No. It’s not. I’m an ass. I know. But… we’re in a rough spot and
-And you thought I might be able to stroke your ego a bit before you patched things up with her.
-No. Ocean, look, I think you’re really cool. Really cool. Usually… I know this sounds bad, but usually I avoid your type, but you’re different. You’re awesome and…
-Hey Paul, it’s cool. Usually I avoid your type too. Let’s just call this a failed experiment. No hard feelings.
-Failed?
She grabbed her leather satchel and shoved a twenty dollar bill towards him. More than she owed. She smiled.
-Bye Paul. Be good to her.
He watched her leave, aware that he wasn’t the only one following the swish of her skirts. She waved at the waitress who waved back energetically and then she stepped out the door without turning to look at the booth. He was pretty sure now that he did want to kiss her. He was pretty sure that it would have been terrific, maybe even song-worthy. Maybe he should run after her, tell her she was beautiful. Girls liked drama and sweeping romantic gestures.
He picked up the phone and dialed home. Hopefully Lindsay was still expecting him.

The Tallest Building

Despite the earliness, she was already waking up. It was never the same sleeping in someone else’s bed. A grey light leaked through the bare window. She wondered if anyone could see in but imagined they were probably too high. It was drizzling outside, which only added to the sense of it being too early to be awake. Through the haze she could see the grey outline of the space needle. It always made her laugh how many cities boasted some tall building as a tourist attraction. Like she didn’t have anything better to spend $20 on than riding up a tower. If you want the view, find a hill or hell even the second tallest building in the city. She closed her eyes. The body next to her shifted. There was no use fighting it, she was awake. She sat up part way and scanned for her clothes, which had been discarded in stages throughout the room. She spotted her underwear near the foot of the bed and made a grab for them. The body next to her rolled over.
-Where you going beautiful?
The voice was full of sleep and raspy from dehydration.
-I can’t sleep.
An arm encircled her waist and pulled her gently back into the nest of the covers.
-Then come cuddle with me.
She lay back down. It was cold outside the blankets. Her bus wouldn’t leave for a few hours and it was raining. The arms, two sleeves of tattoos, pulled her in close, wrapping around her like an octopus. She admired the detailing on the koi fish on the right bicep. A stubbly chin rested on her shoulder and he ear filled with warm morning breath, beery but not rank.
-Fuck, you are so beautiful.
She smiled into the covers. The delivery was terrible but the early morning and the hangover stripped away all pretenses. It was sincere. The lips started to kiss her neck. She pulled away a bit and turned to face the man next to her in the bed.
-I stink.
He laughed. The laughter reached the dark green eyes which were now open and candidly examining her.
-You smell amazing. Like sex.
-Mmmmm
She kissed him, noticing, but not really caring, that her chin was already tender from his stubbly cheeks. His hands moved into her hair and she let herself enjoy the moment for a minute before pushing him back.
-I need to brush my teeth. I wouldn’t mind a shower either.
He caressed her breast, which lay exposed above the edge of the sheets.
-Can I join you?
She pulled the sheets over her chest, pushing his hand away in the process.
-Is it alright if I just jump in alone?
He shrugged. She could tell he was disappointed but she wanted a proper shower without the pressure of trying to be sexy or intimate. She kissed him on the cheek.
-I’ll be quick. Then I can treat you to breakfast before my bus leaves.
-You don’t have to do that.
She kissed him again.
-I know.
-There should be a clean towel under the sink. If not, the one on the back of the door shouldn’t be too bad. Sorry.
-Hey, no apologies. You’ve been a good host.
She slipped out of bed, grabbing items of clothing as she padded towards the bathroom. He watched her with a sleepy smile, enjoying the show as she bent to retrieve each piece. She slipped on her shirt and shut the bathroom door behind her.
She examined herself in the mirror. She hadn’t washed her face the night before and there were smudges of mascara under her eyes. Her hair was a massive tangled bush and her chin was red. But still, not bad.
She turned on the taps in the bathtub and waited for the water to grow hot. She tried to ignore the hairs floating in the puddles at the bottom of the tub and the thick yellow ring in its blue plastic. When the water was near scalding, she pulled the little lever and the shower came on. She pulled off her shirt and stepped in. There was very little around the edge of the tub: cheap shampoo – no conditioner- and a grimy sliver of soap. That was part of his appeal, the cheap bear he was drinking at the bar, the slight hair on his lower back that confirmed he didn’t wax or shave any part of his body aside from his face and his apparent lack of beauty products. When the hot water had almost stripped her skin, she stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself in the towel that hung on the back of the door, not bothering to search for a clean one under the sink. She stepped back into the main room.
-You jumping in?
-Later.
She dropped the towel and began pulling on the clothes she had assembled.
-Mmmm. Careful or you’ll get me going again.
She threw the damp towel over his head.
-Come on. I’m all clean and I want to eat before the bus ride.
He grumbled but rolled out of bed. She took a quick peak at his body before he threw on the same clothes he had been wearing the night before. Not bad. She pulled a sweater out of her backpack and did up the straps, hauling it onto her shoulders. He laughed.
-How long are you going for again?
-Not sure. So… where’s a good place for greasy breakfast around here?
He gently pulled the bag off her shoulders. She held on to the strap for a moment and then let it slide through her fingers.
-Let me take this. I’ll drive you to the bus station. There’s a good place not too far from there.
-That’s not necessary.
He kissed her.
-I know.

They sat across from each other each other in the booth. The walls were covered in found artifacts: a junked piano, bicycles missing wheels, flattened brass instruments, antiques sports rackets and such, but even with the eclectic décor they could find nothing to say. They were both relieved when their meals arrived.
-So…
He paused to chew a bite of egg and toast, wiping the yolk from his chin with a crumpled paper napkin.
-Remind me how to pronounce your name. Sorry.
She finished her bite of avocado.
-It’s ok. I’m used to it. Hazheel. Ha like something is funny and zheel like zeal, zealous.
She could tell he didn’t know what she was talking about.
-Rhymes with feel.
He nodded.
-What’s the origin?
She sighed. There was no interesting story. She stayed silent.
-Well, it’s very pretty and unique. Like you.
-Thanks but you don’t have to be all…nice.
-What’s wrong with nice?
She continued eating, following each bite with a gulp of bitter coffee.
-I just want you to know that…it’s not like I do this all the time. You are…wow.
She knew he wanted her to say something similar but she couldn’t. The waitress came with the bill. He reached for it.
-Hey, I told you it was my treat.
She pulled it out of his hand and slapped a few bills down.
-Thanks.
She stood up and slipped her massive bag onto her shoulder, glad she had grabbed it out of his back seat.
-Well, thanks for the hospitality.
-Hey, I’m going to drive you to the bus station. I’ll wait with you.
-It’s only a block away. I like walking.
-Well at least let me get your number.
-I don’t have one right now.
-Ok, well let me give you mine.
He scribbled it on a napkin and handed it to her.
-Great.
She shoved it in her pocket knowing she would toss it whenever she remembered to take it out of her pocket. She doubted she would ever come through this city again. Even if she did, a city was never the same the second time around. She knew he was watching her as she walked out the door, being careful not to hit any diners with her bulky bag.

The depot smelled of piss and sadness and looked as if it had been attacked by an army of spray paint cans and sharpie pens. The hunched man behind the counter informed her that her bus was running late.She sat in the one free chair. Like so many of the bus stations now, they had removed all benches to deter vagrants from sleeping on them. She watched the oversized clock tick off the minutes. The metal grid of the chair bit into the flesh of her legs. A man beside her hacked and coughed. An infant wailed on the knee of its obese mother, who jiggled it absentmindedly but otherwise paid little attention to the screams. Hazheel thought about taking a walk but she was scared the bus would come and go while she was gone.

What we Have Found

How do we stop from strangling ourselves in our loose ends? I know you came because I called. I don’t how much you remember, how much came through the grey.
Mackay, I’ve known you since I was born, or probably before. Our mom’s were pregnant at roughly the same time and there are pictures of the two of them sitting side by side, comparing the swells of their pregnant bellies. I imagine you and I may have tapped Morse Code messages back and forth to each other from our womb homes.
We were born two weeks apart in the same local hospital. It was inevitable that we would be friends, so we were. Most of my childhood memories involve you but sometimes I wonder if I have any specific memories of those years or if the images I see are a composite of all the time we spent together. These are some of the things I remember:
1) Sitting in your back yard drinking imaginary tea from my miniature porcelain tea set. You were always a king and I was a very bossy queen who told you to do things like wipe your nose and pull up your socks. In my mind we are anywhere between four and six. By six, the neighbourhood boys had made it clear to you that boys did not drink tea, not even imaginary tea, from porcelain tea cups.
2) Kissing you, my first kiss, in a game of boy chase girl on the playground. I caught up with you next to the swings and went to kiss you on the cheek, the usual punishment when you were caught. You looked so disgusted that I decided to tease you by leaning in for a big smooch on the lips. The disgusted face must have been a bit of a lie because suddenly your tongue was in my mouth. See, that sounds like a concrete memory but you claim we kissed earlier than that, at a sleep out in your back yard. I don’t know whose memory to trust.
3) Playing never ending games of crazy eights, on the porch with lemonade if it was sunny, in a blanket fort in either of our living rooms with hot chocolate if it was cold.
4) Auditioning for the school play in grade nine, when my memories become a bit more distinct, and, somewhat to our dismay, being cast as Romeo and Juliet which only added to the litany of “are you guys dating?” we were forced to field on a regular basis. We weren’t.
We didn’t date until university. That is, we didn’t date each other until university. We dated as much as anyone else in high school. Nothing serious for either of us. Nobody ever passed muster when compared to you. Your girlfriends were always jealous of me and most of my boyfriends felt the same about you. Almost everybody thought our friendship was weird but for us it was what it had always been. I do think it’s kind of strange that neither of us considered the romantic possibilities at the time but it’s hard to shake the image of a snotty nose kid you grew up with even when an almost full grown man is standing before you.
I guess we didn’t happen until my dad died so in a sense we were always tied together in death. It was my first year in university. I had moved away. Not far, only a four hour drive, but far away enough to feel like it was a whole new world. I was just trying to get my footing, figure out who I was in this new landscape, when my dad had a stroke. As soon as you heard, you drove out to get me. I remember, you talked to all my profs and made sure I got extensions. You cleaned my dorm room so I could go back to a nice space. You sorted through my dad’s stuff, keeping the holey red cardigan I had given him as a Christmas gift when I was five, tossing the ridiculous collection of ties. You dealt with transferring bills to my mom’s name and all the details we were too upset to consider. Basically you said and did all the right things. It’s so trite, but in losing my dad I found my husband.
I’m glad we didn’t get married right away or anything. Neither of us were the impetuous types. It wasn’t a whirlwind romance but a slow natural progression from friends to friends and more. It wasn’t entirely without its weirdness. The first time we slept together was a disaster. I kept freaking out about the fact that I was seeing you naked and when you started kissing my neck I laughed. You tried not to be offended but then, mid deed, I had a full blown laugh attack and we were forced to stop. Luckily, we got better at that stuff. The rest was easy. Some times I wondered if I lost out on the thrill getting to know someone for the first time but what was that thrill compared to the comfort we had?
You proposed two years after my dad died. There was no hot air balloon ride or candle filled bedroom, just a sensible discussion about the possibility, a discussion that ended in the decision to go ahead and get married. Our parents were thrilled but not surprised. No one was. Like any newly wed couple, especially a young one still struggling through school, we fought. I was a yeller and a thrower, books, cloths, pillows, anything unbreakable I could get my hands on, while you were a quiet sulker, prone to walking out and wandering for hours. But, we were always able to laugh about it all later. I was happy. You had always been there for me and I imagined you always would.
One night we argued. It was common argument. You had a bad habit of leaving wet dish cloths in the sink. If I didn’t notice, they’d sit there and start to smell and it drove me nuts. I found one in the sink, got irrationally mad, and ended up throwing the dripping, stinky thing at your face. Understandably, you got pissed and stormed out. That was the last time I saw you, at least in that form.
You were walking on the shoulder of the road and a drunk driver came flying around the bend and struck you. You died instantly, or at least that’s what the police officer who knocked on my door said. I don’t imagine that they ever tell you that your loved one suffered a slow agonizing death. In one moment, I lost my husband and my closest friend. I could try to tell you what this feels like. How at first you think it’s a cruel joke, even though you know it’s too terrible to be fake, how even when your brain understands your heart doesn’t, how there’s numbness until the knife of your grief splits you open and spills your pain in hot tears, in shrieks, how your body stops working and you find yourself falling to the floor, breath gone, how the words don’t matter, how you want to be held but can’t stand to be near anyone, how you are deaf but every noise puts you on end, how you are a shell that keeps breaking, a seam that keeps splitting, a blackness that swallows the world whole. But, unless you’ve been there, my words are just words.
I don’t remember thinking “I’m not going to make it” but everyone around me seemed to think I might break irreparably. They were around me day and night. Sharp objects and pain killers were removed. I was brought hot teas and cold cloths, sung songs and stroked, left alone in dark rooms and surrounded by hugging arms. Nothing cut through my raw pain. My only thought was “Mackay, Mackay, Mackay” a chant that filled my head, some times a lullaby, some times a war cry, some times a prayer.
I hardly moved from my childhood room for months. Food was brought to me on trays. Some times I ate it, mostly I didn’t. At first, I was left in peace but after a while my mother and other well intentioned guests started trying to pique my interest in the outside world. I was brought gossip magazines and blockbuster movies. I was cajoled and bribed and then sternly admonished to get out of bed. I couldn’t. But then one day, I heard you call my name and I felt you standing over me. “Rose,” you said “I’m here. You called me loud enough and long enough and I found you.” I felt the pain lift, like a dark velvet curtain rising to reveal a bare stage. There is nothing there yet but the audience is full of anticipation. You were my audience and so, for the first time in months, I left the bedroom.
I remember standing over the sink and brushing my teeth. The face in the mirror seemed not to be mine. The eyes and cheeks were sunken. The teeth appeared enlarged against the thinness of my face. I was shades paler. My hair had grown but was matted, unwashed and unbrushed. You stood over my shoulder and watched me, encouraging me in this simple task. I thought I might have lost my mind but it was a relief. I sat at the kitchen table and ate breakfast -poached eggs on English muffins and orange juice- with my mother. She watched me with such attention and shock that I thought she must seeing you behind my shoulder but I was the only unnatural apparition.
It didn’t take long to settle back into our place. Many of the pieces of you, photographs of us together, books you had enjoyed and underlined, your favourite mug, had been tucked into boxes by well-meaning friends and relatives. I pulled them all out, feeling that they would weigh you down, stop you from simply drifting away again to wherever you had come from. It’s a grey space, you told me. You didn’t know how long you had been there, only moments it seemed, but you had torn through the fog, following my voice. I missed our conversations. In your ephemeral state it was hard to pin you down to anything concrete - no more arguments about communism versus socialism or the merits of carbon trading- but we gained an intimacy even sharper than when we were both solid. I felt you slip inside my skin at times. I breathed you in. You guided my hands as I chopped onions on the wooden cutting board. You twirled me as we listened to Cuban salsa on your old record player. You slept in my hollows, never rolling over to the edge of the bed. When I finally went back to work at the school, you followed me. I would feel you blanketing the children when they got too rowdy, touching my neck when I was tense, always calming the air.
People were constantly checking up on me. Though they wanted to see me doing well, I suspect they were unnerved by my sudden recovery. I told them I felt you around me, knowing they would nod and agree without understanding a thing. Slowly though, they got used to my strength, used to my new habit of talking aloud to myself, the way I would suddenly smile as if I had witnessed something funny or touching that the couldn’t see. I too grew used to these habits. Again, in loss, I found my husband.
I could have continued like this forever. I suspect you could have too though I often feared you would eventually be called back to this grey space. Or that I would and we wouldn’t be able to find each other. Sure people thought I was a bit strange, felt I spent a bit too much time alone, but they didn’t matter. Only you. And then Ryan.
I think you noticed him before I did. You had that ability to be over everything and I tended to ignore others. You didn’t say anything but, in retrospect, I felt a shift. You were afraid. He approached so slowly, I never thought of putting up my guard. Hellos in the corridor, a cup of coffee in the staff lounge, just another co-worker, but you knew before I did that I looked forward to seeing him, made excuses to linger. We lived close. Soon we started walking home together. It was awkward at first. I felt you around me always. I imagined I was betraying you as I laughed at his jokes. Once he touched my arm gently mid sentence and you tried to seep into the space between us. He looked at me strangely feeling the air grow suddenly cold. I grew momentarily cold too. Believe me Mackay, you were still the love of my life. But he was flesh, and you were a memory I was breathing life into.
I never planned to let him in. Or maybe I did. Some times we forget to lock the door on purpose, tempting fate. You were angry with me. You didn’t say it of course, conversation being limited as it was and directness not being your style even in life, but I felt you pull away. You stopped coming to work with me and at home you often stayed in other rooms. I felt the pain lurking just beneath the surface and afraid to let it out I would call to you again and you would join me, plugging the leaks for a while.
But I couldn’t ignore Ryan. He was persistent. He made me feel like letting the pain leak out. The first time we kissed, I sobbed for hours. He held me on the stoop, refusing to let go even when it grew dark and cold. I know you were watching from just over my left shoulder. I felt your pain find mine.
After that, cracks started appearing in us. I would call and you would not come. I would enter a room where you were but not be sure of your presence. I would find the photos of us face down on the mantle or knocked to the floor. I would cut myself while chopping onions. The records would skip incessantly. I turned to Ryan who seemed to have infinite patience for my halting steps towards him. Eventually my steps became strides and leaps and I found myself in his arms despite the resistance. Do you know what it was like making love to him knowing you were so often watching? Saying “I love you” while you listened in? My heart tore a little each time but Ryan was also my salve. He makes me happy as you once did.
Mackay, you are my first love and you always will be but I cannot tear myself in two anymore and I cannot keep you here. I know I called you and I cannot promise I will never call you again, your name will always be in my heart and on my lips in times of trouble, but I want to usher you back to where you belong. Can you afford me happiness?
* * * * *
I asked Mackay to leave but I see now that he cannot. I called him here and now he is lost, trapped in a world that no longer has space for him. I tried to find the exit but I am even more lost than him. I called him here and so I am responsible for him. I cannot love two men at once. I asked Ryan to leave. He was the only one that could. I am resigned to private looks and the intimacy of the formless. In yet one more loss, I am bound to my husband.