It was a hangover, not the nudge from worn steel-toed boots that woke Fanny. “f**k-off, I’m awake.”
“Coffee Fanny?” This morning’s creamy sweet double-double and its notable caramel undertone rinse the taste of blood from Fanny’s mouth. A smoke straightens it out. While Fanny showers Vince scrapes skin of the bottom of his feet with a knife bought at Canadian Tire with a gas coupon and kept in the drawer of the coffee table for this very purpose. On the way out the door the jacket he drags knocks over the empty he has been ashing in. Oblivious, Vince leaves it gurgling out into a puddle on the carpet. Bong water blues. Outside, Vince has a piss in the yellow grass beside a pile of bald tires and rusted rims, ignores the empties that spill out of the door when he opens it, starts the truck, lights a smoke.
Orders are barked out of the dirty mouthpiece of a payphone. “Don’t f**kin’ let Max try and start’er. Don’t ****in’ let Max put ether in there either , he’ll wreck ‘er. She’s got a pony start. A gas start. Prob'ly just has water in the fuel. You got five bucks? Bring a jerry can down to the pumps. Get five bucks of super. Don’t f**kin’ let Max give you regular either. Super. Throw ‘er in the small tank on the bottom there. You’ll see. Got a red cap on ‘er.”
Tired from being dull and brilliant, you find yourself at the end of the dock trying to start a tugboat.
The river is like that too. Dark and wet, and shimmering the shadow of a barge. Black and black and black and black and bright. Trying. It isn't the acid. Just the dance sunlight does sometimes; when it feels like it.
The gas engine starts easy, but labours to turn the big diesel over. Stubborn as old diesels are, she blows black exhaust in a chugging rhythmic no, no, no, no, that turns to a yes, as if all heart attacks are recovered from. Idling, the rhythm tightens. Bass and base chakra. Diesel, dead fish, and four stroke mix.
Waiting for the tug pilot on shore, Fanny and Vince throw a joint back and forth, in the shade of a Manitoba maple. “So I went over to Pete’s yesterday with the new Iron Maiden tape and we had a couple beers in his garage and Michelle comes out of the house and the next thing I know she’s thrown her wedding ring at him and she's got him by the hair and she’s laying into him with the boots. Only been married three weeks Saturday and Sunday Michelle’s kicking Pete in the face and Pete's yelling ‘Divorce cu*t divorce cun*’”
Choking on the smoke and his laughter Fanny sputters his response “He called from the ho-tel, asked me to meet at ‘im at the peelers. Pete told me that they had a fight, but he didn’t tell me no details.” He pauses, tapping the cherry of the joint with the callous of his index finger, collects his thoughts “Should’a heard Pete that night, that very night, goin’ on about Satan and dogs and love and Michelle, all while getting a lap dance. Talking about how all dogs are cute, in their way. How you can’t pet all the dogs ‘cause some get scared and duck away and some’ll be mad and try to rip your hand off. An’ ‘e’s looking at me when ‘e’s saying this, winkin’ and grinnin’, turnin’ to enjoy the gorgeous box this girl is grindin’ in his face.” Fanny takes one last pull off the joint, flicks it to Vince. “ Yup, Pete’s like that, ain’t he. He likes to pet all the dogs. Yup. Pete wants to pet all the dogs in the world, but even more when the bi*ch is bearin’ ’er teeth at him. He likes the challenge of soothin’ there mean out and smoothin’ their snarls back over their teeth.”
It was a hangover, not the kids running up and down the carpeted stairs, that woke Fanny that morning. Warm in bed, he listens with his eyes closed to the day develop outside his dark room. Waves of giggling, padding about on tip toes, and hushing tones, are abandoned with the end of a cartoon. The radio in the kitchen is turned on. Fanny keys a text message to an ex-girlfriend. "I would like to spend my extra hour making love to you." He deliberates over connotation and edits. "I would like to spend my extra hour having sex with you." Too formal he thinks. "I would like to spend my extra hour ****ing you." Even on the small screen of his phone it looks too crude for Fanny's taste, he rolls the words over in his head and chooses "I would like to spend my extra hour making love with you." Nice, 'with', together. The smell of the first pot of coffee and an over cooked pancake waft underneath his door. As Fanny smiles to himself, Nicola knocks.

"Coffee Fanny?"

"Sure." He affirms, pulling his sheets over his head.

The door opens. The sun floods Fanny's room.

"Company Fanny?" Nicola addresses the lump in the bed.

"I'm hungover Nicola."

"I can tell." Nicola sets down the mug beside Fanny, walks around the bed and carefully cracks the blinds before shutting the door. She kicks her slippers off and lies down at the foot of the bed. Fanny pulls down a corner of the sheet and peaks at her. They share a moment in each others eyes. Nicola rolls onto her back supporting her head in her interlaced fingers. Fanny watches her stare at the ceiling, breathing, her eyes blinking, her chest rising and falling with long, deep, even breathes. He sits up. Sips his coffee. Continues to watch her as the room continues to settle. Nicola's voice startles him. "She loves you Fanny."

Inhale, exhale. Her voice hangs in the air between them. He searches for words. She breathes.

"Do you remember the first time we saw her? Before we met her?" Fanny concentrates on his cadence to hide his grief, "We stopped for hot chocolate before picking up Sam at the daycare. We watched her having coffee by herself. Remember what you said?"

"No," listening intently, Nicola's breathing deepens. "What?"

"You said she looks like she is in love." Fanny sighs, summoning energy to go on. "It was a beautiful thing to say Nicola, a perfect description."

Nicola unlaces her fingers, flops her hands on the bed, turns her head away, tongues her loose teeth, slides her hands into her red corduroys, and says, "Sorry Fanny."

Fanny sips his coffee.

"I break my own heart. It is my favourite lesson."

Fanny sips his coffee again.

Nicola pulls the blankets towards herself with her toes, adjusts them while thinking it through, turns toward Fanny snaps her fingers and says, "I've got a favourite lesson."

"What's that Nicola?"

"Everyone on the bus is cute."

Familiar, he thinks. "Where does that come from?"

"You said it that same day Fanny, on the bus, remember? Before we picked up Sam. I said she was cute. And you said 'Everyone on the bus is cute.' And it was true. Everyone."

A little background on me:

I'm from Ottawa.

I like to drink coffee, write, and read the paper.
I like nice things like rain and art and music.
I like to make soup.
I like my bicycle.
I love people, even my friends and family.
There is a thing I like to say, and I also like to say that I like to say it. This thing? "Where expectations end, peace begins." I like it. I think it hastens that process.