26

The next morning was grey and the forecast was for intermittent rain all day. They got in the car with the hope it would clear enough for a walk somewhere. After fifteen minutes, they stopped for coffee and had to dash inside through a downpour. It was a cute local place that made their own muffins. They also sold tote bags, sweaters, and country knickknacks, probably all made locally. It felt like they were struggling, trying to think of any way to make the business work. There were only a few places to sit, one of which was a booth, the table top made from a slab of laminated rustic wood with the bark still on. They chatted about nothing and repeated hopes that the rain would stop and their plan to get groceries and find a place to walk. When they left, the rain had eased up a bit.

At the grocery store, they picked up a salmon filet, baby potatoes, and green beans. They decided to get take-out lunch at the store deli. Eva zoned in on the deep-fried chicken fingers and fries. He decided to order the same, somewhat attracted to the grease to counter the dreary wet day. They drove two hundred yards south and sat in the gazebo sheltered from the drizzle. A lone Canada Goose stood nearby, waiting for something, it seemed.

“Wonder what he’s waiting for?” he asked.

“Maybe it’s a she.”

“Is there a way to tell?” He took out his phone and searched. “Males have thicker necks and bigger heads. Hm, kind of like humans.” The creature looked at them as if insulted. “Why is he by himself, you don’t usually see that, something must have happened.”

“Would rather be alone.”

“Cast out? Dumped?”

They were back at the Airbnb by 1 PM. They napped together on the bed and then got up and made tea.

“I guess you’re looking forward to some time with June at the cottage.”

“Yeah, it’s going to be great!”

“And Rupert and Jasmine will be there.”

“They said they would.” He gave her space to say more, perhaps about him coming, but she added nothing.

“Can you read me a scene from your play?”

“Sure,” she said without hesitation, which surprised him. “Do you remember that scene in the prison?”

“Yeah, the cell mates – the one doesn’t want the other one to share anything about herself.”

“Yes, that’s Miranda, Candy, the other.”

He remembered that Candy was based on Eva and Miranda, her older sister. And that Eva had realized somehow that Candy was dead and the prison a sort of after-life.

“There have been other scenes, and things happen, but the main thing is that Miranda tried to suffocate Candy.”

“Because Candy wouldn’t give up?”

“No, she gave up.”

“Ah, ha.”

“Ready?” She squirmed excitedly on the couch, her laptop open in front of her.

“Absolutely.” He wished he’d asked her to read something the day before.

Candy: Don’t worry, I’m not going to report it.

Miranda: I know that.

Candy: I’m not afraid of you.

Miranda: You don’t believe I’d go through with it?

Candy: I know you would. Maybe you will.

Miranda: And you’re not afraid?

Candy: I’m not afraid of you.

Miranda: Do you want to die?

Candy: Of course not. Do you?

Miranda slaps Candy’s forearm hard. It smarts.

Candy: I’m sorry.

Eva stopped to clarify: “Candy is not allowed to ask Miranda any questions.” Spencer nodded.

Candy: There’s a way to get out of here.

Miranda laughs.

Candy: I’ve found a way. We can both get out of here.

Miranda: I know a way to get out of here too.

Candy: I mean it. I’ll tell you what it is.

Miranda raises her hand to slap her again, a warning.

Candy: I love you, I want you to come with me.

Candy closes her eyes, ready for it. Miranda slaps her, but it’s like a caress.

The guard calls, ‘Lights out!’ A moment later everything is black.

Eva kept her eyes on her screen for a moment then closed the laptop cover.

“Powerful,” he said. She smiled, pleased. “I cannot wait to see this. How close are you to being done?”

“A while. I haven’t even got a first draft.”

“Do you know how it ends?”

She rocked her head from side to side. “Kinda.” She smiled at him. She went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, stared at what was there and then let it fall closed. “I brought a joint,” he said.

“So did I.” They compared. Hers was a little flattened from packing and looked a little small.

“I got the same stuff or pretty close to it that we smoked last time,” he said.

“Okay, let’s do that then!”

“Yeah that was pretty good.” They both chuckled, remembering.

“What about dinner?” she asked.

“I’m not hungry yet, why don’t we smoke and then see how we go?”

“Okay.”

They stepped outside and he lit it, getting it going with a few draws, then handed it to her. She took a puff, then another and they traded it back and forth until it was less than half gone. His drags were full, hers were puffs. “I’m done,” he said.

“Okay,” she said, unsure.

They went inside. He opened a beer and moved to the couch, his back to her. He was pretty high, gripping the rails somewhat, but managing fine. Behind him, he heard her faffing around in the kitchen and normally he would have turned to see if she needed help and offer it, but cannabis was wonderful at eradicating such anxieties. He didn’t even turn around. She kept moving things, opening and closing the fridge, a pot lid rang out.

“What are you doing in there?” he said, again, too chilled out to turn and look.

“I’m working.”

“Working. Hm.” He put on his latest favourite playlist on Spotify. “I don’t think we’re supposed to be working.” He took a long, satisfying sip of his beer.

“How long will the salmon take?” she asked.

“Um, about 20 minutes, hopefully faster, needs a high heat.”

“Okay, maybe I should put the potatoes in now. Or when do you want to eat?”

“It doesn’t really matter to me. I’m not sure when I’ll be hungry. We can cook anytime you want.”

“Did that joint do anything for you?”

“It sure did.”

“Really? I don’t feel anything.”

“Oh.”

“You’re feeling it?”

“Yes, I’m totally high,” he said, even-keeled.

“Oh, my God, not me.”

“Have another toke, then.” He laughed, remembering her original warning not to let her smoke again. She stepped outside and he followed, passing her the lighter. She had trouble getting it lit.

“Let me try,” he said. He got it going and took a small hit for himself and passed it to her. She took a good haul this time and then another.

“You good?” he asked.

“Yeah, think so.” He put it out, then followed her inside, her round ass swaying ahead of him. He caressed her neck gently from behind and she turned around for a yummy kiss. The night was young, however, so they let each other go.

“I opened a beer,” he said.

“Oh, that’s…” she started to giggle, “Wonderful.” She giggled more.

“Would you…care for one…m’lady?”

She kept giggling, starting to take off. “Did you…” she couldn’t get the words out, but he knew what she was going to say.

“Yes, yes, a great accomplishment, something I’ve been working on: getting the beer open.” Her face scrunched into silent laughter followed by shrieks. He continued: “It finally happened, after many years of diligent…application, I’ve done it. It’s open! Would you like one? I have experience!” Her laughter went on, starting to set him off too. “Okay, okay.” He moved to the couch and sat down. “I guess you’re high now,” he pointed out. She poured herself a glass of water and sat down.

“Where’s that fabled open beer of mine, anyway? I can open them, but I can’t find them. They run away, the little devils.” He found it in the kitchen. “It’s hard going, lost beers and such, can a guy relax or what?” He looked at her, happy to see her having fun, her giggling continuous. “Comfortable?”

She did her best to calm herself and stop laughing, but all she could utter was, “Mm?”

“Need a pillow? Blanket? Massage? Maybe a salmon? Green beans? Are you into beans? I think you have a passion for beans, isn’t that true?”

She set off laughing again.

He asked: “How do like them?” Her face scrunched again. “That’s a serious question – how should we cook them? Roasted, I imagine.”

“You imagine?” she was really off now, bent forward to ease the pain in her belly. “Beans? You imagine beans!”

“Oh, my God. Should I call an ambulance?” She waved him off to be quiet. “You look like the roasted type, that’s all I’m saying.” That set him off giggling. “Wasn’t that on your dating profile? Roasted green bean type.’ Yeah, I remember now.” The side of her face lay on the couch, her body fetal, trapped in silent laughter.

He’d broken a sweat and opened all the windows. Moving grounded him so he prepped the food from where she had left off, leaving her to calm down.

“Maybe a movie,” she finally said.

“Good idea.”

He sat down beside her as she scrolled through the choices on the screen. The Big Lebowski appeared. She hadn’t seen it. He assured her it was the perfect funny silly movie for them to watch. He pressed play and then paused it almost immediately and looked around. “Did you take my beer again?” He got up and went to the kitchen and found it. “Do you need anything?”

“Mm, no, okay for now.” She restrained a laugh.

He put his beer on the windowsill and then sat comfy next to her, snuggled. “Ready?” It was as if he was about to press a button that would catapult them somewhere.

“Yeah,” she chuckled. He pressed play. She seemed to enjoy the movie enough but had no big laughs despite being so giggly at everything. About thirty minutes in, he put the potatoes and beans in the mini oven to roast, then resumed the movie, attending to her comforts with a good amount of flirtation and mock politeness. If she was having fun, he was happy to serve any role in her service: cook, driver, butler, and of course, lover.

The potatoes and beans were done, but the salmon in the mini oven was taking longer than expected. He kept getting up to check it and wondered how much being high was throwing him off. Was it two minutes ago that he last checked or ten? Of course he checked it too often and the constant opening of the oven was surely responsible for the longer cooking time. Finally it was ready, only just, but slightly underdone salmon is fine. Overdone is an embarrassing, disastrous failure.

He handed her a plate to help herself. She stared down at the potatoes and beans, stumped.

“Go ahead,” he said.

“Well I, …what should I…I need…”

She didn’t see the serving spoon right in front of her. “Oh, my God,” he exclaimed with mock frustration and dished them for her, pretending exasperation. “Everything’s such a problem with you.” He chucked the spoon back in the pan. They peeled with laughter. She managed to dish the rest herself despite more giggling. He followed her back to the couch with a small amount on his plate, he was still too high to eat much.

“Did you want lemon?” he asked. “I didn’t have any, but you can.” This set her off again, and she set aside her plate so as not to spill it, her face dangerously scrunched. He knew what set her off – his strange qualification or warning or whatever it was, some twisted politeness that, for some reason, it was important she knew when making her decision that he did not partake in the squeezing of lemon on his salmon but, taking that into consideration, she, nonetheless, still had the option to do so. He found it revealing of his actual sensibility. A twisted thoroughness, unnecessary frills on his politeness, obsessive, and anxious – the providing of information that was of no concern to anyone. And now it had slipped out and found its way into the ears of someone who was high. She couldn’t stop laughing at this odd human behaviour, and neither could he, but not quite as hard as her. He knew it was some portion at him.

The movie ended. She appreciated the suggestion, didn’t know exactly what to make of it, but it was silly, good enough. They lounged a bit and then leisurely cleaned up in the kitchen. He reached for her waist, his other hand sliding up the back of her neck, into the dark bush. He loved the bush, the thick curls trapping his fingers, begging them to stay a while. She seemed to melt onto his energized frame, her mouth on his, sinking into tenderness. He led her to the bed and gave her a little push and then climbed after her and gnawed her neck. She whispered, “I like this…when you take control.” He was relieved to hear it, as it was impossible to predict when a woman liked or hated when a man took the reins. The only light in the room was a monotone strip of grey from the half-open curtains, weak against the dark furniture, carpet, and bedspread. Soon they were done and lay there, blank, unremarkable.