A couple days later she recovered and he texted:

When can I see your lovely self???? I want to visit Federation Gallery this weekend… Jeff Wilson. Maybe that interests you?

Her: Yes, that interests me. 😊 I love Federation and his art looks cool.

Him: I’m free at about 4 pm Friday… Weekend is wide open. I fly out Monday morning.

On Monday, he was flying to Sedona for a week of hiking, a solo trip he’d booked before they met. He thought of inviting her, but it was too early to throw the trials of travelling at their little sprout of a relationship. Living together for an entire week was too much! The notion of her coming was never brought up or alluded to by either of them.

It was a sunny Saturday with warmth that drew everyone out in a friendly mood for a kiss of spring. They met on Broadway for the walk to Granville Island and could remove their jackets and feel the breeze on their bare arms. They had donned their sunglasses, and as they passed other walkers, everyone smiled and said hello. Spencer hadn’t experienced a friendly vibe like that for as long as he could remember. Was it because of Eva? Or because they were a couple? A good-looking, happy couple? Or just because of the weather?

“Friendly today,” said Eva.

“Oh, I thought that was normal for you.”

“Ha, ha, yep of course.”

Granville Island. They went for lunch first, but had to wait fifteen minutes for a table, and declined drinks when they were seated. He noticed he wasn’t craving one. Chicken tacos without cheese for her and Halibut tacos for him, and guacamole to share. Dining with her was comparatively easy despite her strict attention to it. Food had become so complicated during his lifetime. Meat or no meat at the top of the list. And from there, gluten or not, vegan or not, dairy or not, organic or not. Most previous partners had been vegetarian, always struggling with it, talking about it, feeling shitty about it. He liked that Eva ate meat. It was easier. They had to raise their voices over the chatter and the open kitchen. He asked her if she’d been to Mexico.

“Yes, Martin and I went once. You?”

“Yes, many times, maybe six? I could live on guacamole and tequila.” Her mouth twitched, but she covered it with a forced chuckle. The way he said it must have revealed he loved the feeling of two or three tequila sodas and lime running hot through his veins, the mere smell of tequila took him back to those carefree solo travelling days in the Yucatan. “How did you like it?”

She shrugged and pushed out her lips. “Okay. It was a resort, I actually hate resorts.”

“Same,” he said, but it wasn’t exactly true. Sometimes he liked kicking back in the sun with ample food and drink and a good book. “I’d like to go to Hong Kong, India, and Japan. And definitely Europe again in the not-too-distant future.” This was true.

“What attracts you to the east?”

He admitted it was whimsical and that he hadn’t done any serious research except for being inspired by conversations with people who had been there. “Europe would be good, I’ve been thinking about that too,” she said.

He felt his interest in the East quickly wane. Their food arrived and they sloppily enjoyed every bite, the conversation reduced to Mm, good, really good. A drip of sauce ran down the inside of Eva’s arm, she made no haste to wipe it away. He smiled at her, and she returned it.

It was a short walk to the gallery. Throngs of people bustled about moving every which way, energized by the sun to enjoy Granville Island on a beautiful day, the fresh food market, coffee, ice cream, bakeries, gift shops, and art. Smells of sea salt, fish, pastry, and coffee wafted over them. The crowd sometimes split them apart, and they couldn’t talk. Bytes of conversation floated by. ‘…that didn’t take long…’, ‘…if she wants to…’, ‘…you always say that…’.

“I need to get something to drink,” she said.

“Sure. You want to go in somewhere?”

“No, just a Diet Coke.”

He knew it was absurd, but her wanting a Diet Coke excited him. He liked Diet Coke too, but had never dated a woman who did. And if he’d had to describe the type of woman who did like Diet Coke, if there actually was a type, which he knew there must not be, seeing how universally popular it was, he would not have described someone like Eva. Why not? He couldn’t answer. Just like how it seemed strange that she ate deep-fried tempura and salty chips.

“A Diet Coke, indeed. That’s interesting, I like Diet Coke too. But it has to be in the can.”

“Exactly,” she said.

“It does something no other drink does,” he said, stating the obvious.

“Yep!”

He felt disproportionately closer to her.

“Here,” he said. He led her inside the crowded take-out food area of the market. “There.” He pointed to a pizza and gelato vendor that sold cans of pop.

“Do you want one?” she asked.

“Absolutely.”

On the way to the gallery, the crowd thinned to nearly nothing. They sat down on a shaded wooden bench in front of a funky store that sold old-style brooms. The kind of place that made you wonder if they made any money.

“I’ve never dated someone who likes Diet Coke,” he said. “Maybe that’s the key to everything.”

She chuckled. Neither said anything for a few moments and the silence had him searching for something meaningful to say. “So, how are things between you and Martin now?” Do you guys have an okay relationship?”

“It’s funny you ask that.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, we have a meeting tomorrow.”

“A meeting?”

“Not like a meeting, but we’re getting together to talk about a few things, hopefully work things out so that we can both attend family things together, which we can’t right now.”

“You guys aren’t talking.”

“No. June and I are solid. She’s a musician, and when she plays, there’s this awkward figuring out which one of us is going to attend, it really sucks for her.”

He nodded with practiced sympathy. “Right.”

“We were emailing a bit, and then I just asked him if we could meet instead. Email is just, you know, it’s not ideal for talking about things like that, and he said yes, so we’re meeting.”

She took a long drink.

“There are some things that need to be worked out, which is why after seven years apart, we can’t even be in the same room. He was really…he didn’t take it well. I get how he felt, but he never understood…anyway, I have some things to say, and I’m hoping he does too.”

“Is he with someone else?”

“Yep, found someone to be with just six months after I left. When the divorce came through, they got married.” He was curious about what she needed to say to Martin, but also didn’t want to know, it felt like a house of cards.

“I’m kind of nervous about it.”

“Yeah, I don’t blame you. But talking is good, always good.” It was a stupidly obvious thing to say and didn’t sound like the voice in his mind. He wished she wasn’t meeting him.

“How’s it with your ex?”

“It’s good now. We had a bad year when we first split, arguing about money, but that got worked out. Now I can go there and the four of us have dinner about once a month.”

The gallery was empty except for one other couple in their thirties. The man had dark, wavy hair to his shoulders and studious, round glasses. He wore a sky blue ascot and a dark blazer, both of which Spencer instantly disliked because it seemed to have been worn specially for the occasion of looking at art, denoting an assertion that he was of a class who knew what art was and was not and therefore entitled to a higher level of respect, which Spencer wanted to give him with a clenched fist.

Eva drifted off and Spencer stood in front of a painting that may as well have been a blank canvas, his view was full of fantasy, ripping the ascot from the jerk’s neck, perhaps slapping him with it, and then ejecting him from the gallery by the scruff of his neck and a hoof in his ass, fair payment for his sanctimonious pretensions. His heart beat quickly as if he’d actually done it. He turned away to calm himself with Jeff’s paintings, which slowly came into focus.

He knew full well why the ascot bothered him. His father had worn one on occasion and imposed his views of art and music on Spencer when he was too young to understand that they were simply his opinions and had never qualified them as such, but rather as the truth. Spencer’s tastes were wrong.

His heart thumped wildly and the back of his neck was hot. Thankfully, Eva wasn’t in view. The couple moved in the opposite direction, and after a few minutes, Spencer sidled up to Eva, in front of one of Jeff’s paintings of a large neon street sign. “What do you think?” he asked in a low whisper.

“I wonder what interests him in these signs?”

“Meaning?”

“He must really like these signs. I’m curious why.”

“Do you like it?”

“It’s interesting.”

“That’s a safe thing to say.”

She pulled down the sides of her mouth, taken aback. “Hmf.” She drifted to the next painting.

He trailed, and in the same low, whispering voice: “Don’t you want to know what I think?”

“Mm…sure.”

They both looked at the next painting (by a different artist) in silence, a dense British Columbia forest of firs and cedar at dawn. His head hammered from the inside, and his eyes involuntarily squinted. He wanted to tell Eva he didn’t like the way she had grimaced, but knew she’d done nothing wrong. “I’m sorry.”

“You seem really tense.”

“No, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it came out wrong, I’m sorry, I was actually trying to make a joke, stupid joke, like deadpan.”

“Oh.” She moved to the next painting. He followed, allowing some space between them.

When they exited, the sun hit them harshly. The whole outing felt forced and unsatisfying. They headed south on the path through the thickening crowd, the young, the old, rich, poor, crazy, and those who pretended sanity. Families making a day of it, the coffee, ice-cream, the high-hipsters, the pods of teenage girls, leering shy boys, tattoos, shaves, tears, bloodshots, polo sneakers, begs for change, mumbles of anguish, long gone stares, swinging hips, bra-less, hot mouths, caked makeup, no makeup, it didn’t matter, you were here, that’s all, and for some reason, he was slowly comforted.

They took the seawall along Charleson Park. There was room to breathe, no more bustle save for a few walkers who seemed so sure of themselves. They sat down on a bench overlooking the water.

The downtown skyline across False Creek was radiant, like a postcard. The water sparkled, boats chugged slowly or sat languidly, and seagulls cried out. He preferred the walk on Kitsilano beach they’d taken the first time she’d come to his place with its view of the mountains. That was less than a month ago, but felt like six. She sat close to him and wrapped her arm around his waist, which felt awfully good. They kissed before she rested her head on his shoulder.

“I’m meeting June tonight for this DJ thing she does every year with her friend. I would invite you but I haven’t told her about you yet.”

“Okay, yeah.”

“Not because of anything, she doesn’t want to know who I’m dating, unless it becomes serious.”

“My guys are the same. I haven’t said anything yet either.” He despaired they hadn’t come that far. Dating was a thin thread, easily broken and forgotten. The sun suddenly looked pale across the water and he noticed the grass under their feet was still ragged and soggy from winter. He could feel them parting soon.

She said: “I’ve got a few hours. Do you want to come to my place and have sex?”

It was the kind of unexpected thing she’d said before, her choice of words and wry yet matter-of-fact tone. He had thought the afternoon was over and he would walk her home, and that would be the day. Off-kilter and suddenly excited, he kissed her reactively. He felt like he was fifteen, being seduced by an older, dominant woman. Indeed, she was calling the shots. And he loved fucking her.

As they walked, weed came up in the conversation. He did quite a bit in his younger days, those were fun years, he told her, but now he smoked the stuff only now and again. She liked it after dinner with friends, it sounded like a common occurrence, laughing hysterically, she said. It felt like she was fishing for the offer of getting high together. He reiterated that he wasn’t opposed to doing it, but it wasn’t of great interest to him. He knew himself well enough, but didn’t tell her, that if he was with a partner who regularly got high or habitually drank, he would join in and smoke and drink more than he’d like. He had done this with friends in the past, partaking in what the group was doing. He didn’t want to be in a relationship where getting a buzz was central.

It was after 3 PM when they arrived at her place. She used the bathroom, then he did, and when he came out, she was texting on her phone, frowning slightly. She moved to the kitchen slowly, finishing her text, and he followed. She slipped her phone into her pocket and poured herself a glass of water, but didn’t offer him one. He pretended it didn’t bother him and got his own. Maybe she had had a change of heart. While he was drinking, she exited and went to her bedroom, he followed slowly, making no assumptions. She pushed the duvet out of the way and started removing her clothes, so he followed suit, and they fell into their shorthand that was becoming established. She liked soft caresses that built slowly and nearly incomprehensible dirty whispers against her ear, which he didn’t think he was any good at. Suddenly, there was a faint sting on his back, she had accidentally scratched him. He quivered and drew in a quick breath. “Sorry,” she said genuinely. For a moment, his unsettled feelings disappeared.

“Can you do that again?”

“What?”

“Scratch me.” She drew her nails over his back lightly with one hand. “Harder, dig your nails in.” They pierced the top layer of his skin. “Oh, that’s good. Do my ass.” She laughed. “Dig your nails in hard.” She did. “Now scratch!”

She giggled and did so.

“Oh, God, that’s good.” It was.

He ran the tips of his fingers over her torso, ever so lightly, she sighed with pleasure.

Their lips locked and pressed and then travelled and then pressed and locked again and again. Bursts of racy aromas slipped around them as they climbed the rhythm. Then, so utterly transported, they cried out, not believing, not understanding, not caring.

After, they lay close, chests rising and falling, their legs twined, bathed in the orange glow of the sheer curtains.

“Can you read me some of your play?”

“Sure,” she said with feigned hesitation. She scrolled her phone, smiling like a shy child. “You ready?”

“Yeah, go.” He smiled, enjoying the pleasure she took in reading it.

It was a scene in which Candy, 22, the woman he’d read about before in the interrogation, lies awake in her jail cell. Her cellmate is Miranda, about 30 years old, wakes and tells Candy about her dream. Miranda: I was in the living room of the house I grew up in and everyone was rushing. My mother kept yelling at me to fill the cardboard boxes up quickly but I couldn’t find any boxes.

Candy: What does it mean?

Miranda: Dreams don’t mean anything. My Mom was a monster most of the time – that wasn’t a dream.

Candy: Does that mean you’re ready?

Miranda: No.

Candy: I don’t want to play this game anymore.

Miranda: It’s not a game. Do I have to keep saying it? Miranda turns over to meet Candy’s eyes.

Miranda: If you tell me what you did to get in here, you’ll be driving me insane.

Candy: It’s not that bad what I did. It’s not even a crime.

Miranda: Stop! You really don’t get it.

Candy sighs.

Candy: What’s so terrible about getting to know each other?

Miranda: And then what? Go have coffee? Go bowling? We’re in jail, you don’t understand anything.

Candy: I do, there’s nothing wrong with-

Miranda: First I’ll tell you my favourite colour and what my rabbit’s name was.

Candy: What was your rabbit’s name?

Miranda sighs.

Candy: Fluffy.

Miranda: Nope.

Candy: Bouncer.

Miranda: Nope.

Candy: Rex.

Miranda laughed, stopped, then laughed again.

Miranda: Rex, that’s a good guess.

Candy: What is it? Was I close?

Miranda: Rex?

She laughed again.

Candy: Tell me!

Miranda: Why? If I tell you then you will never guess again and we’ll have to find something else and eventually there’ll be nothing else to tell and we’ll go mad.

Candy: There’s always something to tell.

Miranda: People wanna’ believe that, but it’s dead wrong.

Candy: I’ll tell you my rabbit’s name.

Miranda: No you fuck will not.

Candy: If I want to, I can.

Miranda: What difference does it make? Fluffy, Fucky, Funny, who gives a shit, the only thing that’s interesting is that I don’t know – why take away the mystery? Once it’s gone, there’s nothing left. So don’t tell me anything and if you do, I’ll have to kill you so that they put someone else in your place, someone full of mystery I can wonder about.

Candy: I don’t like this game.

Miranda sighs.

Spencer let the words hang in the air for a few moments and then met her eyes. “That’s really good.” He actually did like it.

“Hm, thank you.”

“There’s so much in there.” He felt deep discomfort, not knowing what else to say to satisfy her, to convince her that it was good. It was good, but worried so deeply she wouldn’t believe him.

She nodded modestly.

He wanted to escape his discomfort. “Do you want to hear something I wrote?”

“Hm, okay.”

He got his phone out of his pants, scrolled and found it, a short comedy bit about the old, broken-down, black-and-white family TV they had when he was a kid. She didn’t laugh or even chuckle.

The room was silent, and then she said, “Hm, thanks.”

“Yeah,” was all he could think to say. Her gaze was down, her body rigid. The room filled with silence.

“Can I tell you something?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Well, I just read you something that really meant a lot to me and then you just ran and got something of yours and … I just felt like… it felt like what I wrote didn’t mean anything.” Her lip quivered.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” His chest ached.

She quickly wiped a tear, frustrated that it was even there. He was mortified. Another tear slid quickly off her cheek. She sniffled.

“Eva, I’m sorry. I was insensitive.”

She pushed away another tear and kept her head down. “My bad, Eva, my bad.” She nodded, trying to stem the tears. “What can I do to make it up to you? I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing, it’s okay, thank you for not being defensive.”

“Of course, if I fuck up, I want to know, I want to make it right.”

She took a deep breath. Then used the bathroom. When she came back, she put on her clothes, so he did as well. At the door, he gave her a deep hug, trying to press a thousand apologies into her.

* * *