short fiction

Letter to an Old Friend

LionDear Rob,

I had that dream again last night about the Lion's Gate bridge. Damn, but I still don't know why you always wanted me to do that stupid gag with you. What was it that drew you to it in the first place? Shit. I still laugh every time I think of us with our pants down around our ankles mooning the whole of Granville Street from the top of that damn lion like little kids... you screaming buttocks akimbo! at the top of your lungs. God, that was funny.

Who was it that gave it to me? Tara? Jenn? I can't remember, but I found your shirt last month, buried in the bottom of a box we never unpacked. I suppose that's what got me thinking about you again, which probably invoked the dream in the first place.

I have to admit somedays I miss our valiant attempts to see just how artificially flat we could squish things. Somedays I wake up and think "why am I sober right this second?"

But, I go to work anyway.

This morning I got up for work as I always do. Cut myself shaving; when will they invent a razor that doesn't slash as it shaves? I forgot to press my tie last night because I got home from playing hockey pretty late. I had to do a steam and streak to make the 8:25 streetcar on time. Clara was still in bed when I got up which was probably a good thing as I'm sure she'd just bring up the trip to Daniel's cottage again. Everyone knows how much I hate that annual exercise in mass embarrassment.

We haven't been getting along that well in the last few months. You remember how we used to talk about how people get the relationship twitch? Well, I think both of us got it at the same time. We both blinked like we got a bright light in our eyes, and now everything seems... broken.

We had a massive blowout earlier this week about who's turn it was to do the dishes, which almost turned physically violent. Really! I think back on how we got started and I can't believe how easy things were then. It feels like that pretty well sums up how I feel about everything, at least these days. Unbelieving.

I started bringing the shirt into the office with me, tucked into the top fold of my briefcase. I don't know why but just having the goddamn thing nearby is making work bearable. I've been thinking about you a lot these days.

Sometimes, when I'm in marketing meetings my mind starts to drift, remembering the sight of fog over Margaret Street, and running down East Hastings after that goddamn weasel Fetten, and Jenn and I trying to secretly have sex in your closet during that party and getting caught by that guy she was screwing around with...

Most of all, I think about you and that goddamn crazy evening and filling the bathtub with ice cubes and water and throwing you into it... and Tara screaming about how she couldn't find the Nalorphine syringe. Did you know I tried calling Tara up last weekend but the number I have was out of service? I still don't know where she got that stuff from but I remember her telling you that you should cut it beforehand. You were never good at listening to instructions, were you?

I haven't heard from her or Jenn since the funeral. Neither of them even looked at me during the entire thing. Can you believe that? All of the crap we went through together and they didn't want to have anything to do with me. As I just wrote that I actually felt a twinge. I can't believe that still hurts.

Take care,
Ken

ISSN 1499-7894
SEARCH
Contact Archives Web Love Writing Photos FAQs Home