it’s february, probably. after last call outside the place at queen and augusta, standing in a little crowd of coworkers under a cloud of smoke and foggy breath. i ask if you want to go to the after hours and you say yes and i say okay, i’m cold, let’s go. and you’re drunk and you look at me and laugh and say, saunders was right about you, and i stare at you for a second trying to figure out what you’re talking about and your smile is mocking me. and i am suddenly pissed off and i say, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? and you just laugh and you say it again, saunders was right. so i say it again, what the fuck is that supposed to mean?, and then calabrese pulls me away and gestures to paloma who is wasted and laughing and waving you over and he says something like let him talk to her. and i smoke and after a while you come and take my hand but i’m still angry and we leave and i say, seriously what the fuck did saunders say about me and you say, he said you were in love with me. and i say, fuck saunders. fuck you too. let’s get high.
it’s may and sunny. midafternoon on the streetcar heading to the ferry heading to the island. we have a bottle of wine and a blanket and fresh fruit and two hash joints and we’re staying on the beach until the last boat back. the sun is in my eyes and you’re sitting beside me bouncing with energy because you got the day off work and it’s beautiful out and we’re going to your favourite place. you’re talking about where to stand on the ferry and what we’ll do first and the best place to build a bonfire and you put your arm around my shoulders in broad daylight and i remember the time not that long ago when you were surprised at the colour of my eyes because you’d never seen them in the sun. you’re looking right at me and you smile and you say, saunders was right, and i say shut up, but i’m smiling too, and you kiss me.