Hey you!

You are seated on the blue plastic vinyl of the seabus, its’ predictable grumbling motor is just background music to the commuter noise. Rats in the galley as the squat boat turtles its way across the harbour.

The guy seated across from me is rocking out, headphones by Dr. Dre. Head up, head down, head side to side. The tourists are all pressed up against the windows, snapping:

Canada Place,

a seaplane,

Mom and Dad.

Mom and Dad and Canada Place and the seaplane. Everyone together now,

Vancouver, the glass city preens vainly in their lenses. The girl on her iPhone “yeeeeah I know, but of course we all knew he had it in him. That streak. He cheated on the last two as well.” Her voice drones like a hive. There’s a pair of snowboarders, baggy pants ridiculous on this sunny spring day, elbowing each other. Mostly though just people like me and you. Plodding to work and back with this weird interlude of a cruise in the middle.

But back to you.

I won’t describe you on craigslist later:

Old guy, on the sea bus. Normal suit, grey hair, wrinkles. I’m not interested. Just wondering?

I’m wondering,

Why do you do the New York Times crossword in pen? I’m not questioning your intelligence and I’m sure you’re very smart, but your daily frustration is evident in the trenches your frown carves in your forehead. You scribble out each wrong answer, and painstakingly draw new tiny little boxes for your next attempt. You do this every day, and you’re wrong a lot.

It drives me nuts.

Sometimes I can barely restrain myself from grabbing your crossword and doing it for you. Or simply rending in it two, and casting it to the ground like Moses and the Ten Commandments. I sharpened four pencils and I keep them in my bag, and maybe one day as you mumble the clue to 24 down I will hand you one. Before you scrawl in the wrong answer yet again, get half way through and run out of letters (or boxes).

But for now I watch you around the corners of my library book and despair at the violent scratching of your pen as you realize Juliet wasn’t Shakespeare’s only leading lady.

So try again.

Worked late again.

Avoid my eyes.

Just how domesticated do you think I am,

Dear?

She smolders in the corner of the club, her gaze on the young man at the piano, her back to me. I still might have a chance. Cautiously, I start towards her familiar form. She is swaying to the haunting notes that the pianist’s long fingers are coaxing out of the instrument.

“What do I inspire?”

The words implode in my head, just as the scent washes over me. I’m caught. The perfume is the same as always, overwhelming and heady, bringing back the memories which are painfully uncoiling in my mind.

Her skin is golden silk, white teeth tear into the flesh of the fruit that is plucked too soon from the tree.

My hand is on his shoulder, my brother turns with a welcoming smile and I grunt as I swing the mallet.

I hear the heavy clink of silver coins as she counts them into my damp palms, red lips curve into a grin.

“Lust.” I hiss in answer, doubled over in pain and frustrated that once again she has the upper hand. I shake my head to clear it. She smells of sandalwood and smoke, black pepper and dying roses. The boy at the piano plays the final notes of his song, and notices her. They always do.

She winks at me, and draws the lighter out of one pocket, her cigarettes out of the other.

“Not tonight Mike.”

It’s as if she’s whispering directly into my ear, that hot breath, the flick of a forked tongue rasping against my neck. I watch as she glides up to the doomed soul, who’s smiling at the gorgeous red head in the black velvet dress. Maybe he has a moment of hesitation as he catches the faint hint of sulfur, or the odor of decay, but then her mouth is on his.