My head turns like a dry heave. It's caused by that reaction I
get every time I see you. Like when I was eight and refused to
eat mushrooms. My whole insides almost coming out in one dry instant.
When I see you the bile doesn't rise. The dry heave is of a melancholy
grown-up mushroom moment. Non-digestive. Completely emotional.
Me sitting on the BC Transit blue velour. Reduced to four summers
gone. The skinny achy-hearted raver stuck somewhere between the
knapweed and lakes and thrift shops of BC's southern interior
because she can be in the same island city as you.
Right- the direction I look when you pull up directly beside
me in the grey van. Two panes of company glass separate us. Your
glass: the suite hotel you lug other people's Samsonite sets around
in. Mine: public transit. You north. Me south. You still with
her. Me still stuck on you. Hating her for stealing you away.
This has only happened four times since the last time I spoke
to you. Your 25th birthday phonecall. Me knowing she was in the
After the inner heave, my quick green-eyed aversion. Your Labrador
brown eyes peering forward. North. A movie poster "capitvates"
my gaze. I stare and stare, pretending to be interested to any
fellow bus passengers. Lookers-on who noticed the dry heave head
spin, the squinting, pained look in my eyes. I beckon the light
to change, for me to continue south. You north. I want to become
blue velour, a cheap velvety fixture unnoticeable to you.
Your wallet. Whenever I see you the wallets opens up in my mind.
Shitty leather. No cash of course, not on your bellman's wage.
The never again credit card. The note. Your Nova Scotia driver's
license. I wonder if my Rotary Exchange card is still there from
1996. Me chubby-cheeked and redheaded. You always laughing and
softly pinching my still babysoft chubby cheeks.
Did you recognize my cheek through the #2 glass. Turned obvioulsly
away. Very quickly. The invisible wretch from within not letting
me do anything but, stare at the movie poster. Twirl my brown
hair. Picture your wallet: my drunken calligraphy slanting across
a bank statement, "I love you," after a night at Paul's
Motor Inn Karoke Bar.
The traffic tip-toes. The light turns. You move north. I slowly
Miranda Post has turned to the south.