Saturday June 10, 2017
overheard at Pearson Airport
<span style="font-family:Courier New;"
We go for beers and pour our hearts out, leave them on the coasters, then slap our pints down hard
many of us don't know each other's names but names aren't important here
No one seems to be interested in the arbitrary–it takes too long to sieve through anyway
After the first round our blood pumps fine: easier to pass through
leave a mark
After the second the bruises start to show up and we tip the bartender in advance for not kicking us out
Monday November 9, 2015
The night she dies I get a text from a bartender
I sometimes fuck
I wash my
face I get on my
bicycle and I go to
On the way
Somewhere east of Dupont
My chain falls off
I can’t stop the tears
Can’t stop the oil from getting
on my dress
I arrive too close to morning
too far from my father
He lights a joint and the promise
I made to myself not to tell him
Undoes like the clasp of my bra
Naked I’m a puddle of chipped nail polish and
He’s a father so he knows
how to soothe
He rubs my back until I’m hiccups and
when we fuck he’s gentle
he knows just how to look me
in the eye
I leave before I can feel grosser before
I can taste the tinniness of shame
My tongue heavy in my mouth I sing
under my breath
Up the hill on the way
Saturday, June 6, 2015 at R&D
Overheard at R&D
I didn’t know what to say, she was this beautiful blonde with tits as big as my head. Dressed in a sweet long dress that I imagined was covering her perfect panty-less ass. I believe this woman doesn’t wear underwear. Just let me have that, okay?
She asked me if I was from here and I think I died. Classic line. She was engaging with me and I wanted to play. But, call me crazy, maybe it was the boyfriend sitting right beside her, but I didn’t feel right saying anything at all. As if she was testing him and he was testing me. But her perfect blonde tits and her perfect free and liberated ass….they haunt me still. As if I was almost on my way to actually getting to know them.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
Overheard at R&D
You thought I was someone I wasn’t, that’s for sure. How could you have thought that I was just me and that that was enough? I was wearing a red short, tight in the right place, loose in the others, aka “just right”. I’d ordered vodka sodas from you all night, smiling, eye contact, touching your fingers a little bit longer, aka “just right”. Before I left you called me over to the bar and said, “I want to see you again…” It was gentle, slow, it was corn roasted on the barbecue, perfectly blackened. I wrote my number on the inside of your wrist, where lots of women have etched in black forever ink “DESTINY” or “breathe”. You liked the placement, you had an accent but I wasn’t sure from where.
We met at a bar a few blocks from my apartment. I noticed blue nail-polish on your pinky. “What’s that?” I asked, a sip of cider fresh on my lips like a coy “Hello”. “My daughter,” you said, and I leaned back, swallowing.
Thursday February 27, 2014 at Sambuca Grill
I go down, I slip down to the washroom of the bar so nobody notices me. So nobody realizes I’ve gone. I need some alone time and I can’t have that here with these people drinking these cocktails eating these dirty fingered bar nuts. I bring with me my flirty lipstick. I leave my phone in my purse hung over my chair. I don’t tell anyone to watch my stuff cause I don’t want anyone watching my anything. I go down, I slip down to the washroom of the bar so I can look at myself in the mirror and give my head a break. I need to see myself sometimes when I’m in a crowded place. When I’m so busy smiling and listening with my whole face that I don’t remember what I look like. I don’t remember what my soul looks like. I’ve got my flirty lipstick. I can hear the bass, I can hear the shriek laughter, the bartender breaking a second glass. I escape. I escape it all. I get into the washroom. The washroom of the bar and I want to stay here for a bit. I finally understand why they call it a ‘stall’.
Saturday, June 22, 2013 Rooster Coffee House
Tom is the bartender you really want to tell that you’ve been backed up since last Thursday, that you can’t keep anything down but scrambled egg whites and gin. You never fancied yourself a bar kind of person, you never thought you’d linger, tearing coasters into a tiny pile of cardboard, sucking on lemons and limes for the shock value, just in case anybody was watching. Tom asked you your name around New Years. You told him, looking deep into his blue eyes, wishing it would be kosher for you to reach across the wood and touch his curly, shaggy, so-touchable hair. You’ve talked about Bali, about Marina Abramovic, about where to get the best roti, about Jazz fm and camping up north. Tom wears a wedding band so you never even considered kissing him. Well, that’s not true, you considered it, and then you forgot it, like you’re used to doing. Now, Tom soothes Jerry, on his seventh bottle of Canadian and winks at you to call him a cab. You do just as you are instructed, and even help carry Jerry out to meet it when it honks it’s horn.