It was probably my fault for expecting that you had a delivery truck. I’d already paid for the solid beechwood table and we were left with no way to get it home. As I scrolled through my phone for any friend with a pick-up you cleared your throat from behind the counter. “You know, you could just borrow my dolly for a $20.00 deposit and wheel ‘er on back yourself.” I thought about the 16 blocks between your second-hand furniture store and my apartment carefully. Then I thought about how tired I was of eating off of my lap and getting ranch dressing on my pants.
We pushed and pulled the table down Commercial Drive. Small dogs with big eyes that grew even larger darted behind their owners as we passed. The old men with well-greased hair in front of the Italian coffee shop complimented the table’s finish and a young boy almost looked up from his iPad long enough to notice he was in the way.
We were starving by the time we got home and made dinner to christen the table with. I briefly thought about wheeling it back up the street to you when I stood to clear the dishes and saw an unimpeded splotch of ranch in the shape of Florida on my thigh.
Your voice grew louder and louder, and the need for decisive resolution rose. Would we approach your booth where you were loudly berating your mother to the horrid tune of “useless bag”, “fucking bitch,” and “pathetic cunt,” and ask you to lower your voice or take it outside, or would I hurl gravy sodden French fries from my poutine at your fluffy white blouse? Eventually your mother left in tears while my own mother and I cursed you out from the safety of our booth. You ordered another mojito and your vengeful, soul-crushing demeanour snapped off in an instant. The waitress’ surprise equaled ours as you blithely shared an anecdote about the best chicken wings in Vancouver. We wondered what your mother had done to deserve such a wild, public lashing, if she deserved it, why we didn’t do something, and if it was even our place. In the end it probably wasn’t, but I still had fries to throw.
It’s at this time of year, when summer begins its gentle roll over into fall, that I take notice of the leaves on the tree in front of the large balcony windows of my third story apartment. In a few months the leafy curtain will dry into fantastic oranges and yellows then slowly fall to the ground, disrobing until the tree is shivering and bare. And it’s at this point that I wonder if you, in any number of the windows in the condo across the street, can now see my cock bouncing around like a skinhead in a mosh pit as I do high knees back and forth across the room in the nude.
Have you been able to watch as I muscle through squats until my pale ass is inches from the ground? Perhaps you were taking photos the time I dropped a bagel on my crotch and had to shower the cream cheese off of my scrotum? And if you were there, peeping and peering, can you tell me, do you think I should get the mole on my upper right thigh checked out?