You liked my shoes, and that was the opening you needed.

You ask me if I trust you.

You can’t see our faces, only the area surrounding it and not very clearly. You eyes are a vividly clear blue.

You travel once a month to Toronto. Take the 19 to the GO, the subway to Sheppard, transfer to the other subway to Downsview, take a rocket bus and then one last bus. It takes you two and a half hours. You were a member there for 34 years and are sad that you cannot go every Sunday.

You tell me who you are with now. You are boning your friend’s leftovers (the one you called crazy) but now you say is brilliant, although still insane.

You told me to take the 400 course, that it goes much further in depth.

You believe that religion is a crutch, that the people who need it are weak.

You were chipping the ice off your sidewalk last year outside your condo. You were afraid for the seniors in your area. You worked for three hours and only fell as you walked back to the house.

You used to take the 17 to your therapy, your son would have driven you but he owns his own business and is always busy.


You are taking bets on which who will sprain their ankle first, you look out for us when the crowd gets rough.

You want to know if my roommates hate you.

You are blind and tell us that it allows you onto transit without cost, and two tickets for one on VIA rail so that you can have a guide.

You were hunting. In the backyard. With a bow and arrow. No wonder the police came.

You think that had better be the case, all transit is free in Scotland, where you are from.

You had an infection, possibly from her, possibly from the soap, it was most painful in the morning.

You are trying to write, you have been trying to do this for ages. You are proud of yourself, but nervous to read it out loud.

Your friend moved back to Scotland, she takes the bus from one coast to another in only a couple of hours.

You tell me his name is Bob. He worked at Simpsons when it was here. When he was 20 you asked Bill if he really was up for the job. You didn’t remember this.

You were lonely after the split; your friends disappeared and left your life. You thought you had an in, but it didn’t turn out that way.

Your husband Bill died 15 years ago, he used to plan for Eatons. You went cross-country skiing every winter and drove to Ottawa every February for the festival.

You say that I have restored your hope, but it may just be that my flowers remind you of spring.

You claim this was only the second time you didn’t try to sleep with an ex.

Your daughter went to Western, then to Laval to study French. She married a French man and became a French teacher. She now lives in St. Louis, home schools your grandchildren so they have both languages in the home.

You say French is not your language.

You turn to join in the conversation. You inform us that if you plan it right we can go from here to Toronto on transfers. You can also go all the way to Hamilton.

You have been trying to end it since New Years, but you say every time you do she takes off her clothes. You can’t say no to sex.

You close the door to muffle the noise.

Your conversations are false.

You know that two chances were more than you deserve.

You showed me photos of your home, but neither of us knows what the significance of that is.

You tell me it’s more complicated, but she took care of it. You were more freaked out than she was about the whole situation.

You want to do more with yourself, be an artist, a healer, a poet. You want your soul to be satisfied.

You thought we should add brown sugar and curry powder, you said that magical things happen when we are together.

You didn’t know and may have to try one day.

You called me first.

Your new house smells the same. A mixture of his cigars and your perfume.

You have no idea what the people who live there will see but assume that they are busy people and will be out all the time anyways. Busy enough to pay 1.8 million for no view.

You make me scared for myself. You make me want to push back and hide away.

You are gone.