Midnight Drive

    “I no longer feel the rush of passing time speeding by. A blur of lights catapult me down a quite midnight highway while still air dances to bouncing bass beats inside the cab of my car. I’ve always considered the moon a great friend of mine; his gentle gaze lightly illuminating small streets, forgotten pathways and broken hearts. With him watching over me I remain in blissful tranquility for the entire drive.”

    A man flips his alpine deck down, which he was told by the sales guy was top quality, and switches mix cds, who a youngster he works with was kind enough to make him. The first song on the cd, Stevie Ray Vaughan – Pride and Joy. He turns the volume up and his mind matches the tempo and rhythm.

    Here he no longer thinks. Not of his job, fatigue or problems in life. Even the memories of his wife who left him or the son whose face he hasn’t seen outside of a picture frame in five years escape him; or perhaps, in reality, it is he who escapes the confines of those memories. With no care of the place he has just left, or where he is going to arrive, the Music, road, and his good pal high up in the sky exist together in momentary unison. This right here, the motionless movement, is a snapshot of a man; his life, existing in the here and now.

    The lights stream by becoming a blur broken only by the guitar rifts of Jimmy page, and drumming mastery of Mike Shrieve. The night’s darkness seems indefinite and overpowering. The spinning black rubber race tirelessly against endless asphalt. As endless as it seems though, like a lovers dream, the moons gentle beam cannot remain infinitely.

    Eventually the darkness breaks, and light creeps over the horizon spilling into the world below. His eyes squint, and his grip of the steering wheel weakens. Already the music is off and the once vibrant atmosphere has left behind quiet, fatigue, and stale air. Already there is nothing to remember of the night that just passed. Instead it simply stands as a forgotten moment of tranquility in an old worn out mind that has worked too long and too hard; and has never found the answers to unspoken questions.

    Around him scattered cars scurry down long sheets of road. The puttering engines, honking horns, blaring music and screeching tires all fall on deaf ears as if there were no commotion at all. Attention is paid only to the smooth rumbling of his own automobile. With the windows fully done up cool air seeps through the vents brushing against the soft clean fabrics of the freshly washed interior. This is all that is felt and heard.

    Toward the city the congestion begins. All the outside distractions, their filthy exhausts and dirty windows squeeze together like someone walking into a night club, inching slowly from a spacious environment to a choking chicken pen of partiers. Despite the sweaty car bumpers and bright lights his own car’s vibrations cradle him like a baby urging him to sleep, beckoning him towards rest. With one elbow on the window frame, and a fist supporting a tilted head centered on the temple he steers exhaustedly. Every time he blinks, it now takes longer and longer for his eyes to reopen.

    Inside the city however, the streets are found to be miraculously vacant. The man snaps his seat belt loose so he can check his phone, a blackberry paid for by his company, but before anything can be checked and with the help from a heavy hand honking on its horn a green light rushes him through the intersection. With little care he ditches the phone on the empty passenger seat.  As little energy as the man has the motel is already only about two miles ahead.

    His eyes can barely open though. Looking through black eye lashes the streets swerve and distort. Street lights and traffic curve and spin into a spiralling vortex. The road is a blurry mess. The man breaks and accelerates randomly at each intersection as his mind plays tricks on him to whether the light is red, yellow or green. He thinks he is going slow but finds his speedometer reads he is just over the 60km speed limit. He swears to himself he is not tired, but can’t help but indulge in the pleasant thoughts of a restful sleep.

    Thinking about the cozy beds, fluffy pillows and cool comforter it begins to be uncertain whether this is still happening in thought or in dream. Heavy eye lids are forced back open, like a weightlifter pushing up his last set on the bench press; every repetition taking longer and longer to finish. Shallow breathing further coaxes him into giving up. First his left hand falls to his side, than his head bangs against the window. He struggles to regain composure but finds that the weights have become too much. Silently the heavy barbell floats to the ground where it lays dormant on the floor. Just before this happens he mumbles to the driver, like a no good drunkard on a Tuesday night, “wake me up if you get lost…”

    His world fades into a warm, black dream. The darkness he floats around in has no shape and no form. Its weightlessness affects both the body and mind creating an almost tangible mirage of peacefulness. He feels warmth against his face as if he were sitting in front of the fireplace on a cold Christmas day, except he has the sensation that he is lying down looking up, and the fire is above him. The heat from the flames slow cook his skin like the afternoon sun in the middle of summer. This feels like it lasts as long as the infinite night that has just passed.

    When he is snapped out of this dream he is blind to the twisting, spinning images of carnage. Metal skidding across pavement, fists jamming into horns and blown tires screeching sideways over the road. When he realizes he is no longer inside his vehicle, but on the ground facing up, he finally understands what has just happened. The blurred images gently settle and he slips back into a dreaming mind, though the sounds still carry into his subconscious like the scenes of a tv program do to a restful child.

    A low moan escapes his mouth through arduous breathes. He hears the covered gasps of shocked civilians along with the drifting steam from the resting metal of wrecked cars. Maybe, in the distance, even the murmur of a crying baby. But, much like dust settling on a chaotic job site the intensity does begin to calm, and the original severity becomes lost in horrifying memory.

    Before ringing cell phones can make calls to manly medics, and blazing sirens swerve onto the scene, there is a frame of almost near silence, which is broken only by the man’s own muted breathing and the instant yet interminable switching of traffic lights. It is for him, however, impossible to calculate the Longevity of this frame of time as being either long or short.

    In this strange state of sleeping the man feels tied down; paralyzed by heavy weights bearing down on his body. Shrouded in darkness his mind attempts to construct the audio into visual. The image remains somewhere between the actual events and fiction. They ask him questions, but he doesn’t understand they are intended for him. Outside in the real world it’s so nice out that he wishes he could see the sun that tans his face with its orange glow; or the singing birds who dance amongst gliding clouds. Such a beautiful day, yet here he is, once again, squandering its splendour. It’s been so long since being adopted by the moon that it is unknown now if he could even get along with its bright brother anymore.

    Through all the clutter a drop echoes across the clean up effort. At first inaudible, but slowly turning into waves off bass that bounce off brick and stone. Further into meditation he is pulled by the deep resonating sound. Though movement isn’t detected anywhere else, his head rings like a church bell; the noise releasing an earthquake from temple to temple. The reverberations last long creating a persistent pain which crawls from the back of his neck to his chin like a lizard trekking across a warm round rock. His eyes squint and his jaw clenches closed quickly like a car door.

    Floating on his back he tries to shake the pain away by moving side to side. His arms stay limply still though his head movements are frantic. At first it is done in vain, but after much time he succeeds. With one powerful sway the pain is ejected from his head like a pilot form his cockpit. For a moment he lays there with his eyes closed. Than he opens them, looking up at the world above. He only finds darkness. Below him he finds a very similar sight. Above is the blackness of space, while below is a translucent watery infinity reaching with out end, stretching so far that distance loses meaning.

    In between the two is a layer of light just as thick has his body. It begins at the water level where his body is half submersed, and it ends just a foot above the tip of his nose. The water doesn’t move at all. His clothes underneath flutter like the arms of a dancing octopus, while above they are dry and tight to his body. The water has half filled his ears and in that water he can hear distant questions echo in a low bassful voice. “whats my name?” the man thinks puzzled. “of course I can hear you.” But his responses slip into the water below and are lost in the endless expanses of the still ocean.

    Moving away from him will show more and more of the only two existing things in this place. An absolute darkness, and an unlimited vast body of water as deep as it is wide. You can move so far away that his body will become tiny and lost in the small sliver of light that is his world. Below him he can only feel the water, and above him he is blinded by the consuming abyss. He lays there listening, confused. He stops hearing the questions and instead focuses on the shallow dripping of water inside his head. The sound is exaggerated greatly, but begins softly. At first like a leaking faucet dripping into a shallow body of water; this grows considerably until it sounds like a basketball being dribbled in an empty gymnasium. Every bounce shakes his brain and blurs his vision, yet leaves the water undisturbed completely.  

    The bouncing becomes less frequent, and as it slows down the layer of light begins to expand skyward. At first it is like a raging snow storm, everything a sheet of white, but eventually its severity simmers down and he can begin to see again. He realizes shortly that his hearing has become deaf. He tilts his head up and sees at first his hands at his side, than, from the intense brightness thin black outlines of buildings begin to emerge. An arm reaches towards him touching his neck. A muted mouth slowly speaks. A vehicle behind the man’s shoulder with spinning lights on the roof; this is all painted with the precision of a fine brush. Anarchy. Mayhem. Horrified onlookers, and frantic rescue crews. As the colors begin to fill in his strength fades and he puts his head back down, looking toward the heavens.

    He wonders why everything is so quiet and why the sky is so bright, blue and beautiful. The sun stands firmly, like a national monument, while clutters of clouds admire like groups of tourists all standing at a distance. Birds fly around leisurely disinterested in either group. The man’s hearing begins to return. He hears at first dozens of incoherent conversations going on all around him. Than police and ambulance sirens, until he can even pick out squeaking wheels bumping over uneven pavement and rattling metal clinking together. A helicopter flies overheard moving in slow motion across the blue backdrop. The constant invisible swooshing of spinning blades high up in the sky are therapeutic compared to the chaotic frenzy down below.

    The man is lifted suddenly, and he jerks in surprise only to find his body is both ravaged and restrained. The shock of broken bones suddenly moving distracts him from his captivity while the pinching throbbing pain impedes his reasoning. His movements are noticed by a paramedic who rushes over and the man, voiceless, attempts to tell him a message. His dry, dehydrated mouth moves but fails to pass along any meaning. Again his body is lifted and he is slid into a narrow passage. It is done slowly and with care, accentuating each squeak of the rusted turning wheels, drawing them out sharply like a fork scraping against a plate.

    The doors begin to close him in. But before this happens; before light is locked out his heart drops down, crashing into the acids of his empty stomach. He feels mortified as he watches a lone man sliding a body into the back of a feasting hearse. He can’t see any details of the victim, but knows without question that he is the murderer. His skin becomes cold and tingly, and his throat constricts and chokes him. He immediately feels that he has lived a day too long. The doors close sealing him into an open grave; sealing out light, hope, and oxygen. Sealing in darkness, self contempt and torment.

    “I lay my head back down and look towards a dark, metallic ceiling hoping to find the long awaited answer to life. I am trembling all over, as if I were freezing to death in the great north, though I also feel sweat pouring down my face. Bubbling alongside my heart in the dark acids of my stomach is my soul; hissing and shrinking into nothing. I want to pray, but know that the being I pray to is busy accepting yet another lost soul into his infinite kingdom. In the dull reflection I can see my distorted face, mutating and twisting into the demon that is making away with the meagre remainders of my existence. I hear the blazing sirens speed away leaving behind the scene of destructive art that I have painted. Until this point I have still not let in a single breath of air, and I will myself to deny any more entry of life. As I lie here not breathing tears slowly fill my eyes. One by one they drop down the sides of my face as I wait to accept the fate that is before me. I’ve been ready to accept my final moment for so long and finally it has come at the time I deserve its worst penalties. I have hid so many years in the shadows too afraid to live. My only hope now is that I can die here where I am most comfortable. Take him into your hands. Bring him into your heart. Do not waste your space with me, for I am content floating in the loneliness of the dark night. Let him feel the sun that is your eye, for I have had a lifetime already to feel it for myself. It is ok God, give where I have taken. Look away from the small corner I used to occupy. It is already vacant. I have already gone…”

Dance Night

 I breathe in deeply, and watch my breath leave my body. The bouncer nods for me to go inside. Already I can hear the thud from the massive speakers. The music is Latin, lightning fast, as the feet inside shuffle furiously against the wood floor. I walk down the steps and immediately am drawn into the new atmosphere. Outside stops being, it is not permitted into the club, not the cool air who dances idly to the anonymous noises in the night. Nor the glittering stars in the clear black sky. Inside now I walk past a long line up for coat check, but wearing only a burning burgundy dress shirt, unbuttoned at the top to let my black chest hairs breath, I don’t need the service. My shirt is tucked into a pair of dress pants, dark navy blue, leather belt, and expensive burgundy leather shoes.

 There is almost no where to move as dancers depict emotions with their body movements in the dim light. Sliding passed the unchained bodies I find an air pocket somewhere near the middle of all the chaos, as does she at the same time. Her white long dress drapes down to her ankles, snuggling close to her tanned frame. Her black heels place her just a foot below me, and her face... How do I describe her check bones, whom my finger tips desire to stroke. Or to describe the neck which I long to graze with my lips. There is a moment of locked eyes as she studies my muscular frame hidden beneath my perfectly ordered clothes. My hand gently moves forward for her to take. It sits in mid air for a moment, than her creamy smooth hand rests in mine.

 We begin moving slowly as the empty space around us closes in. Simple steps, back and forward, but perfect and elegant. Immediately our feet follow the rhythm, and each other. Our eyes still locked, than a smile pokes out from her lips, and it follows onto mine. Our bodies hold the same rhythm as before, but my arm raises to just above her head, and without warning she spins flawlessly around in one full turn. Our hands meet once again. The space around grows us a little more, and the music changes, gets faster, seems louder, but its impossible to tell right now as only our bodies hear the sound, and no longer our ears. With but a hand raised she glides around so gracefully, one, two and three, and than we meet up again, this time closer than before. The range we dance at widens as the floor splits apart to accommodate the passionate movements. This time when she spins back into my body  were as close as we can be, her warmth heats up my clothes and singes my skin. Quickly she is released and sent spinning. As I walk so slowly she dances all around me. My hand moves from her hand, to grazing her back as she spins, down her arm and back into her hand.

 Some people watch, most others move around the floor with their eyes focused on their own passions. Outside the night air grows colder. The wind picks up and scatters a few dry fallen leafs across a tough, empty Toronto Street. Back inside the noise is still bouncing off the walls, as the bodies move to its command. As she turns wildly around me a sweat drops down the side of my face. We dance on into the late night. Eventually the music slows down, the densely packed club disperses. Those who remain now dance slowly. Heads rest on shoulders, movements tighten, and the world in here now eases down to a calmer pitch.

 We are at the bar when she suddenly walks away while I am turned around ordering us drinks. Presumably she has gone to the bathroom. She is obscured from my sight at the other end of the club by the remaining dancers and dim lighting, so I wait until her return. I reminisce about her gentle hands snuggled into my palms, of her flawless body floating across the dance floor. I imagine what her voice sounds like; pretend that, with a soft pitch, she whispers something into my ear. By the time I can feel my arms reach around her body and hold her tightly I realize she is gone. I put my drink down, whiskey on ice; half dranken, and leave the place. The cold air rushes down my shirt and cools me down instantly. Walking against the winds I find myself wonder to where she might have fled. As I disappear down the road in the late night I like to tell myself that I will see her again, and I say, to me, when I do, I will get to hold on to her for just a moment longer.

No Title

All the young men marvel at him as he speaks. Them, in their brand new suits which were bought at the sacrifice of many a life’s luxury, Listen intently to the words that speed out of his mouth. All around the big oak table they jot down notes in the crowded space allotted. When seats became used up they stood, all bunched together, sport jacket to sport jacket, blackberry to blackberry. No one speaks, no one asks questions. Before this he was a man riddled with rumors that eventually turned into myths within the company. He ends his speech, thanks everyone and leaves the room. Speechless.

The secretary Sheryl looks up as he walks by. “How is the new team looking Greg?” Without missing a stride he responds, “Eager and motivated, just like me 30 years ago”, than disappears behind the door to his office. Sheryl smiles to herself as she returns to her work.

Rubbing his eyes, Greg Leans back in the large comfy leather chair behind a broad, hand made desk. The wood is smooth, but covered with piles of folders and loose papers. Behind the mounds of unkept work are picture frames. A beautiful women who holds a young boy in each arm. The kids wave ecstatically in the picture, the one on the left is missing a tooth in the top left side of his mouth. Behind them is a great tree, short, but very thick, and quite comfortably plotted in the ground. The sun is shining, and during the winter the lush grass in the open field, bordered far in the background by a wall of trees, is almost too much to look at.

There are other pictures, graduation day of each of the boys, the wedding of the one, the girlfriend of the other. Hidden away behind a flat panel computer monitor at the edge of the desk is an old man and women on vacation. She is wearing a sun hat, and he a Hawaiian T-shirt, half of the buttons are undone, and the shirt flaps in the winds that cruise across the ocean, cooling down the sun soaked skin of the old couple. Behind them, beyond the front of the ship the water glistens with the skies reflection, and stretches to infinity like the dreams of the young. Greg takes off his sport jacket. He runs his hand through his skim, grey hair, and takes a moment to be absorbed back into the memory.

He leaves early this day to beat out a busy subway ride, and get home early with all his aspirations accomplished. On the subway he chooses to stand for the six stops he has to wait, headed southbound. Going against the flow it’s not too busy, and he could easily find a spot to sit if he so chose. He straightens his red tie against his finely pressed white shirt, tucked in perfectly to his black suit pants. The dark triangles on this tie instantly made it his favorite, a bold yet successful choice for a birthday present from his now daughter in law.

In the seat some twenty feet away sits a punk rocker, equipped with a Mohawk, leather jacket with spikes protruding from all places and one of those chains that attaches to his wallet from one of the notches on his ripped worn blue jeans. He glances over too often at Greg, sneering at his corporate outfit. His face remains stern, but inside he laughs to himself, thinking all the while. “You pathetic corporate dog. HA, slave to the man, working away your existence all day long, your fucken sad man. And the worst part is I gotta share the subway with you. What, no company care today, aww so sad, you dress up like a clown everyday, and you still end up underground with the rest of us, the people ready to step up and make a real change in the world.” He dares Greg to look over at him; to stare into his hateful eyes. But Greg follows his own train of thought, and exits at his stop paying no mind.

Getting off in the new neighborhood he lives in he spots his next two places of business. First, the bar for a pint to unwind, than the small community grocery store to get the food needed for the next days early breakfast. Upon walking in he loosens up his tie and undoes a couple buttons, than proceeds to occupy one of the empty bar stools all lined up in a row. In a booth are a group of construction workers reminiscing about the hard week endured, and cursing the extra day they all have to do on their weekend. “A bunch of hard working chaps”, Greg thinks, “coming down here to let loosen up after a proper day put in, they keep this world a spinnin”.

“What can I get ya”. An over weight man comes over to him. “Well I would do with a pint of Guiness to wash away today’s work.” He walks over to get the beer, “sure think boss”. As he pours the pint the bartenders thoughts wonder. He sees the mess of his shirt and tie, and presumes to know the guys life based on it. “sure” he thinks, “Five O’clock pint, old man, no suit, thick unshaved stubble. Just another guy who never made it to the place he thought he would. No problem I can get this pint for ya, and the next one to come. You just keep on drinking your forgotten dreams away bud, I’ll be here all night, and it’s all I serve.”

The bartender hands the beer over, unconcerned of his customer. “It’s 6.50 now, and it aint a problem to start a tab for ya”. Greg hands a twenty to the man, “No thanks, this will do fine, just a ten back please.” He takes his time to finish the beer, about twenty minutes, than leaves without another word spoken. On the street now, headed to get the groceries he untucks his shirt, and in the light breeze it flutters softly like the felt of a proudly raised Canadian flag.

In the grocery store he takes seven minutes to gather all the food into a green basket, than makes his way to a short line up at the front. “how are you doing sir” A bright smiling face greets the now weary looking old man. “Oh good good thanks”, the faint wiff of beer turns her off instantly, and she bows her head down while scanning his items with a noticeable expedition of speed. “Yeah great day isn’t it, you asshole, smiling at me like that, your four times my age perv. Go get plastered at home sicko, and watch porn if you wanna get friendly with a young girl so bad”. She doesn’t make eye contact when she petitions for the 32 dollar and 72 cent tab, “Have a good day sir”, and with that Greg leaves the store.

Upon reaching home, which only takes eight minutes from the grocery store, he packs away the items, making sure a second time he got everything he needed. The house is empty right now which means his wife is still out with the car finishing her errands. Greg eases into his arm chair and kicks the leg rest up. He slips his tie off and tosses it to the new leather couch they bought when they moved in. He flips the channel to news, but soon drones off into sleep. His head is filled with kidnappings and stabbings and accidents on the 401. In Toronto, they’re just the new lot of people becoming victims during the daily walk through life.

When Greg comes to its late. He squints at the clock above the black tv screen, 9:25. Lifting his body from the arm chair that has absorbed his form feels like lifting a boot out of the vacuum suck of thick mud. He kicks the leg rest back into its shell, and wavers over to the bathroom. Standing in front of the mirror he unbuttons his shirt and slips it off onto the bathroom floor, his body hair, from his shoulders to his chest, are a mess behind the old thinned white wife beater he is now standing in. look at you old man. Look at your grey hairs, look at your old wrinkly body. You’ve had it, your bones are weak and your muscles are exhausted. He remembers how years ago he could work three shifts of work before getting faint; now, he skips out of work early and can’t even make through the evening news.

He stares a few more moments at an old cracking mold of a man, that was once a statue of success. He now slides his pants and socks off, and makes his way to bed where his wife is waiting, reading another thick book about the trials of life. “We have everything ready for tomorrow?” Without look up she replies. “Yes dear, all that’s left is to go to bed and wake up early”. Greg slips in beside her and kisses her on the cheek. He rolls over to hide his face from the reading lamp and already begins to nod off. “It sure will be nice to see the kids again”. She puts down her book and pauses, than a smile draws on her face, it sure will.

In no time Greg is asleep, and his wife bookmarks at chapter 17. She looks over at her sleeping husband. His broad shoulders illuminated in the light of the single reading lamp, all else around him are mere shadows of his success and diligent work. She rolls over on her side facing the same way as him. She places her left hand on his hairy bicep. Her right hand supports her body at the elbow while her hand faintly strokes against the back of his neck. Her finger traces along his scalp, lost deep within the brush like a traveler moving through an untreked forest.

As her gentle caresses ease the weary body she thinks of her good fortune to be so close to such a man. A man whose success was brought on by nothing short of his tireless work efforts. His two kids raised properly by his resolute, yet just sterness. Through all the trials over the years he never fained to love her, never was too tired to dance closely with her to their favorite songs in the candle light after the kids were gone to bed. When he was wrong he would admit it with his head held firm and straight, and when he was right he was patient and delicate to her pride. Over all these years he has built her dreams, layer by layer, and brick by brick. She turns over to switch off the lamp when she notices a picture of the whole family some ten odd years back. The grandparents from both sides and the kids and them standing outside their first house. She smiles back at the faces in the picture, and a single tear dribbles down her cheek. It sure will, she thinks, it sure will.

A Long Days Work

    Cool winds blow across a small complex stirring dry rigid leaves under the moons shadow. The leaves scrape against the black bumpy pavement in and out of the spotlight, lit by small fixtures attached to the ceiling of the one story buildings.

    All the store fronts are dark and deserted. A pizza place, a porn shop, a travel agency. And than there’s Kevin store. Hiding behind the darkness through the isles a crouching light peaks its head out from behind a barely ajar door.

    In the back sit Kevin and his wife Lila. Half asleep eyes stare down at a pile of paper work. Even with the support of his hand his head begins to nod off almost falling to the desk.
  
    On the other side of the desk, just past its corners, Lila leans against the wall where it cuts in to give support to the ceiling. She tucks her body into the corner so that one shoulder blade supports her weight on the wall, and the other on the protruding beam.

    The support that radiates from connects to him like a cell phone’s signal to a satellite. Her eyes are closed, her feet blistering, and mind exhausted. The stench from their work wraps around an invisible bubble that traces her body like an aura. Eventually she slips to the ground. Silently the fabric from her brown skin-tight sweater glide her off her feet.

    As tirelessly as she works, endless days and interminable nights, her strength shines through. A bright smile; a warm kiss; a never dying promise of tomorrow. But tomorrow never seems to come when today refuses to end. Even unaware, a quick glimpse of her beauty feeds niblits of strength back into him. Hope. Strength. And perseverance. All carried into his body from a casual glance.

    Kevin looks up at his tanned skinned wife. Her body fallen to the floor, legs collapsed, and noodle arms folded. Her head dips forward and her body becomes so intertwined with itself it looks like a cylindrically curled up cat sleeping on the cushion of a couch.

    He smiles at her with a tear in his eye. The moment of happiness he feels is fleeting. Again looking below his chin he sees what he must do, and looking up again what he would love to, and misses doing. Just keeping her in his thoughts warms up the room, and soothes an aching neck.

    The business, the dream that has promised to give them everything they’ve ever needed but now risks taking away everything they ever wanted. A brick framed window happily displays their products and invites contractors and handy men from all walks of life. But outside the chilly air cools the naked bricks to the core, leaving the building in a state of frozen stillness.

    Kevin stands up wearily, his arms falling limply do his sides. The chair squeaks backwards; Lila’s head jerks to the sound but than falls back into calmness. Kevin walks towards her, gets down on his knees before her, than lets his legs fall sideways, one resting on top of the other. His left hand rests on her steady beating heart and he finds it again, that blissful and forgotten feeling.

    “Tomorrow” he whispers into her ear. With this her head turns to face his, and their lips rest together barely touching. Squinting eyes open slightly than close only to try again. After failing she attempts to laugh, but the sound is just a burst of rushing air. A fading smile struggles to appear and than is kissed lovingly; softly.

    Her senses are awakened for a moment, and a flood of desires and urges stream into her mind. “Tomorrow” she whispers back, than is kissed one more time before she slips into a sleep where the interaction continues without him.

    Kevin sneaks in behind her so that her head is cushioned by his strong yet weary chest. “Tomorrow” he says again, but this time to himself. Together they sleep the night away in the back storage room of the business they built together. Surrounded by broken tools, boxes, years of filed receipts and cleaning supplies they dream of the life they never get to wake up to. As has happened time and time again the business becomes their bedroom.

    The following day’s first customer is Rick. He is a carpenter who has been buying from their store since he started four years ago. “How’s it going Kevin” he says with his usual cheerfulness. “Oh still day dreaming about a good nights rest” he jokes back.

    Rick buys a few pads for his palm sander and a 1’000 box of screws. “You outta see this deck im building, oh boy it’s gonna be a beauty. Hey, you still want me to build you a deck don’t you”.
“When I buy the house, you’ll build the deck” he laughs.
“Alright, but you know you could have paid me in free tools by now if you just accepted my offer four years ago”
“HA, the way you break things I could have had you build me ten decks by now”
They both shake hands and Rick leaves. Another busy day and another busy week. Kevin always said that a five day work week wasn’t for the ambitious.

    When things finally cool down Kevin sneaks into the back leaving Lila to take care of things. Everything is as normal. Casual customers, new faces and passers by come in, look around, buy, chat, joke and laugh. More receipts pile up, more inventory counted and checked. Morning, noon, midday to late afternoon.

    As the sun burns a crimson orange that stain the nearby clouds a tap on the glass alerts them to a familiar face. Lila looks shocked and can only stare while Kevin takes a deep breath and nods his head hoping he understands it to be, “give me a moment”.

    His wife turns to him and begins to say something but his expression of defeat satisfies her necessity. “I called him”.
“But why”
“Because its time”
“…”
“I’m sick of everyday dragging us along. I miss walking beside you”
“This is very surprising”
“…”
“And the risk…”
“I’d risk it to spend a night with you in our own bed. The one we consummated our marriage in, the one we dreamt up names for our kids.”
A long silence ensues as they both look forward at the patiently waiting figure at the door.
“Let him in and go get us a pizza ok. Well be talking in the back office”

    She opens the door as promised and Kevin and the man walk to his office. Navy suit and slick black hair. Everything about his appearance both looks professional and sinister. He smiles and shakes his hand. It’s a smug kind of smile, a self righteous I told you so kind of smile. He shows him the products that he can get them, the prices they will have to pay and they set up delivery days and payment arrangements. Buying stolen tools to save money on costs and hide income from the government; it was at first such a laughable thought. They both declined the offer, then spent the night cuddling together, sharing each other’s energy with one another, at a time when they both still had some.

    They speak for two hours until it is an agreeable time to shake hands and part ways. A twisted feeling stirs in Kevin’s stomach about the whole deal. From the back he feels the soundless thud of the door closing. He looks around at everything, at all the paper work, all the hours taken away from their lives. The step has been taken, and he immediately wonders if it’s walking he’ll be doing, or running.

    Lila comes in with a cold pizza and puts it on the box of a rebated hand saw with a chewed up power cord. She pushes the desk chair back and snuggles onto his lap with her hands meeting at the back of his neck; sitting there as if she were on the lap of Santa Claus, listing off dream toys that have been dancing around her little head all winter long.

    “Why” she softly asks him in a tired voice. Although her emotion is fearful, she is simply too tired from all the years, and all the dreams and all the waiting, to show it. She looks at him, his head bowing down, eyes directed into his lap. He searches for an answer through a crowded attic under dim lights.

    Outside the air cools down once again. Cold bricks shiver in a gentle passing breeze. Staggered cars zip by unnoticed; their headlights being the only indication of their short passing through. Somewhere a sun rises, while somewhere else it sets. On this plaza however both transitions have already passed and night quickly creeps across the hollow streets.

    “With the money we save we can hire a hand in the store. We’ll take the weekends off and still save for our house. We’ll live instead of dream. Lie under the sun instead of fearing its constant coming and going. We’ll touch the love that we now only trust is still there.”

    His eyes rise and meet hers; both building up fearful tears. Their consciences clasps hard to their hearts as both sides of the scales are weighed. “Who suffers for what we just got into, if it doesn’t end up being us.” No answer is given. Instead they both deal with the reality of what is, or has recently become.

    Their eyes separate, him looking past her at the door into their store, while hers just passed her lap towards the old rickety beat up hard wood floors; or more specifically a nail sticking out and arching to the side.

    “Maybe” he thinks to himself “we just wanted too much in a world that offers everything. Maybe, one day Rick will finally get to build us that deck”. In a sleepless night full of silence the store retains its shape as a bed. Somehow the sun has already found its way back to that small corner complex where the day never ends, and the night barely exists.

    Lila gets off his lap and walks to the door. The store is covered in shadows still, though outside the tide of light has made its way up shore, slowly leaking under the front door threatening to flood the building once again.

    Soon customers will come, as if it’s just another Saturday under God’s sun. Her tired body walks back to the desk to retrieve the front door key. He looks at her as he gets them from his pocket. “Weekends off” she says with a disturbed smile. “It just doesn’t sound very ambitious”. The keys drop in her hand as he stretches his stiff bones to a standing position. “That’s because weekends off aren’t for the ambitious.” She holds the keys in her palm but moves not an inch. Not even the pattering at the front door causes her body to flinch. He walks over to her and places his hand on the keys to take them from her. “They are for the happy”. She is left with a kiss that holds no promises but only renewed hope. It hasn’t felt that way in a long time. No disguises, no coating, just a lip pressed on her cheek. Maybe soon” she wonders silently in her stillness “this eternal day will finally come to an end.

Facing a Better Team

    The game of Futbol, as it’s known in Spain, or soccer as it’s more popularly known in North America, grosses the biggest fan base during the world cup which is held every four years, and although most people watch during the world cup, it is during the many European cups that one will see the best soccer in the world.

    But getting away from the pros, the millions of dollars and multitudes of fans who watch brings us to an empty pitch behind a church. Dandelions infest the clumpy uneven grass field which lowers and rises like a ship at sea.

     Over head dark grey clouds set the mood with a promise of strong showers. You can smell it in the freshness of the air and in the coolness of the breeze. You can see the sky’s dark grin as it waits to release a downpour at any given moment. Long strands of uncut grass flutter in a low gust of fast-moving air across the ill-tended field.

    Two teams are going to show up here and play. The match is an exhibition game between a second division team and a fourth division team. Two teams are going to show up and are going to battle for a win. No refs; only spectators’, players and coaches.

    One by one cars pull off the two lane highway into the gravel parking lot of the small church. Some of the cars carry players from the second division team, the better team, while in other cars are players from the fourth division team, the underdogs. I arrive with my friend earlier than most; we travel in an underdog car.

    As we warm up under the eyes of a lounging squad of 15 we wonder to ourselves if we have what it takes. I play defence and try and imagine making the right stops at the right times; the right pass to the right player. I’m probably more nervous than most as I didn’t spend my childhood in leagues and had to grind out ball control at a much later age.

    Every nervous pass and bad shot I’ve made trail across the back of my mind as I drill the top corner during warm up. Everything looks good during warm up; it always seems to. But when the field is emptied of practicing players, positions are assumed and things become serious, a different story always seems to unfold.

    The coach gives us a final prep talk. He thinks we can do well but isn’t expecting anything from us. He tells us to have fun and enjoy the game. Were told to just relax and play the ball. We stand there listening, anxious to get started; anxious to get that first touch out of the way and break through their defence and open up the scoring.

    I stand on the sidelines as each team makes its formation on the field. A warning drop of rain is launched to the ground splashing unnoticed onto the petal of a dandelion. I kick the ball around the sidelines, then sit on the bench before taking a warm-up jog in small circles.

    Soon enough I sub in, followed by my first touch, first clear, first pass, first mistake. The game continues through the sweat and aches of the players, and through the drizzling of light rain. It continues after they score, and after we equalize. In front of the eyes of scattered fans and hopeful coaches until the first 45 minutes passes.

    Going into the second half even makes us feel good. Although they have had better chances our passes are starting to connect and the field is starting to open up for us. We forget that they are better and instead adapt to the old philosophy “it’s not the cards you’re dealt but how you play them”.

    This has to be your mentality when playing a better team. Unless you’re scratching lottery tickets you can’t win if you’re expecting to lose. Shot after shot and pass after pass the game goes on. By the end the rain has stopped as dark drifting clouds clump together with no visible direction.

    Everyone shakes hands at the final before cooling down and changing. Some players talk about the game, others about Montreal’s chances against Pittsburgh or weekend plans or availability for practices. We split up into our underdog cars and ride away under the influence of a hefty loss.

    Being new to the team I don’t quite know how to feel about the game. My teammate Rob tells me about last year when they beat us 10 – 0, making our meagre 5 – 1 loss not seem so bad. Furthermore it’s expected that in our division a team of their calibre will be rare.

    The truth is, without negating or confirming any of the above given facts, that we have to be that anomaly. Our goal is to develop into a winning futbol team that plays well together, communicates, and above all else, wins. When we step onto a field and confront another 90 minutes of uncertainty it is not us, but them who will be facing a better team.