Whipped back. It wasn’t a place to whip your head back. So I turned it, gradually, every inch of my neck, as I was walking by. As if in passing. Raised my right hand--a peace sign in the direction my head was turned: fully, facing the young man with the Green Peace folder.
Coming at me from the opposite direction, the usual checkered man, just past middle-age and in the shape of an old potato, the usual, saw me smile with my hand raised. My mouth slackened after I passed the Green Peace and potato-man said to me, “I love your smile.” He said, “I love your smile.” Pity, giant peach of a pity there was no one there to see it. The process. Save for me.
I have photos to post of my boyfriend peeing in a public urinal while gazing at me through a fair chunk of hair. A few others of him reading Atwood. If you can’t beat them, join them. I’m letting him into my know.
A thing other than drugs, sex, and the opening of heart (mine, specifically): went all the way out to Sooke Potholes this month. After a few good hours of concentrated and rather skillful rock-hopping and trailmix, Jaxon and I came upon who we were supposed to find and I proceeded to fall into the water, soaking my last two French cigarettes (I’m over it. Though, at the time, I did make the attempt at drying them in the sun. All they did was brown so I let them go) and eventually, after a few attempts at feet planting, sinking back into the water still around me in resignation, face up. After that I swam through the caverns in my bra. At some points, I clung to the slime on the rocks, but couldn’t bend my palm enough to achieve true grip, “This is like a horror movie,” I said. One of those times. Death from above. My three boys floating all around me.