February 07, 2006

I sneaked up behind her on the bus platform and grabbed her in my arms. She jumped slightly, but before she could open her lips to scream in surprise I kissed her. She didn’t seem to mind. For a long while we just held on to each other, our faces touching, and said nothing. “Happy anniversary,” she finally said. “Let’s eat tenderness for breakfast,” I replied.

We went to the Galaxy, where instead of food they served signifiers. Without coffee in my veins, I felt slow-witted and inquisitive.

“Does a BLT have bacon?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And tomatoes?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else?”

“Lettuce.”

“That sounds pretty gross,” I said. “I’m not used to jamming pig-fat between layers of bread and eating it.” I ordered the BLT anyway, and ate half of it before running out to seek Martin.

I found him with the Martians, at the corner of Scott and King, and compelled him to come back to the Galaxy for coffee. He felt right at home. We ate and slowly ingested our coffee, and when we were fully awake we rushed out to take pictures of the city. Our little excursion provided up with staggering pieces of knowledge. For one thing, the KW Labour Market is actually a facade for a Bavarian clothing operation. For another, clowns have cornered the balloon market in the city.

And then it started to rain. The rain stayed with us as we said goodbye to Martin, and even followed us to Laurier where we saw a lovely performance of Urinetown and traded underwear with each other at intermission.

Late in the evening, when we left the theater, the rain became a snowstorm.

“Let’s go on an adventure,” I said, pounding the steering wheel viciously. I blasted the radio and we sped towards Cambridge, where we kissed in a swirl of lights, our faces wet with snow. And from there we followed the Grand River, stopping by its shores now and again to exuberantly undress in the wilderness. “You’re crazy,” she said, grabbing naked buttocks in the middle of a snowstorm.

The river curved towards Paris, where the roads are full of German kitchen schools. There my river violently swallowed up her river, the two torrents floating like one towards the lake. We stood on a bridge, shivering with cold, to watch the waters crash into each other, and I felt all metaphorical and shit.

“You are the river. I am the river.”

We got back in the car and followed the river towards Brantford, where, in the wet parking lot, the windows of our car steamed over with visions and cosmic vibrations. Afterwards, we ran through the rain into a restaurant with our hands smelling like longing and wetness.

We ate copious amounts of chicken, and hours later we somehow ended up in London with hardons, cumsoaked underwear, and tears, slightly overwhelmed by strange adventures.