Exactly nine minutes later, Tim walks in the front door of his modest 2-bedroom semi-detached home on Douglas Avenue in the north end of the city of Toronto. Exactly 15 seconds after that, Tatum wraps her warm, skinny arms around her father’s neck. A fire burns in their working fireplace (first line of credit experience) and Laura makes dinner, actually breakfast for dinner, a family favourite, behind the same counter where Tim ate his peanut butter bagel 10 hours prior. Popeye the dog holds a pair of pink Hello Kitty socks in his mouth and wags his tail furiously, equally excited for Tim to be home.
“How was your day?” Tim asks, dropping his leather knapsack (containing a gum wrapper, a pack of secret smokes (three left), a bottle of relatively cheap cologne, a chewed up pen cap, a pack of Tums (four left, tinfoil tail swirl intact) and a Financial Post crossword with doodles along the edge (a cartoon dog he learned to draw when he was eight, and stick figures playing basketball). The knapsack was hardly a physical burden to get home, but it made Tim feel very urban and a little granola.
How should Laura respond? Tell him it started out great, especially the part where she strangley reached orgasm while Duncan’s long finger explored her like she was an undiscovered cave. Or should she just jump right in and explain that Duncan’s seminal fluid was much thinner than Tim’s and a bit bitter, like almonds dipped in blood.
‘It was fine, was able to score the massive mirror Susan was looking for, all at a tidy little profit for us.”
“Woo hoo! I love profit for us!” Tim responds, moves behind her and kisses her on the back of her neck. The bacon in the pan spits and lands on his hand. ‘Yowch”
“Woo hoo, Yowch!” repeats Tatum, wondering closer to her mother.
Laura looks down and warns: “Watch it sweets, the bacon is angry at your father.”
‘What did I ever do to the bacon?” Tim boos hoos for Tatum’s sake and Laura can feel the wave of not cute anymore nausea punch her in the stomach. Tatum laps it up. Popeye wants the bacon.
“Let’s eat,” says Laura.
“Breakfast for dinner!!”
The Langley dining room table was a harvest table passed down from Tim’s father when he upgraded to something ornate to match his current wife. Tim sat at the head of the table, one of the few patriarchal things he demanded and something Laura could care less about. Even Tatum recognized the inanity of Tim’s royal demands, making fun of him by always sitting there, knowing his creased glare and finger pointing to her assigned seat was forthcoming. She liked sitting across from her mom anyway, she was an elegant eater and Tatum tried to copy her.
The familiar hum of a smart phone interrupted their first bite. ‘Mine’s in my purse,” Laura said, scooping a fork full of cheesy eggs into her mouth.
Tim almost instinctively rolled his eyes at Laura. Her phone was always going off, including at some odd hours in the middle of the night. He never once asked her about who was texting her at 2:24am, she had tons of female friends, some he loved and some he just felt sorry for. Laura acted as a sounding board for the dramatic and a wing woman for the desperate. His phone in his front pocket buzzed again.
“Daddeee, check your blueberry.” Salty bacon, sip of juice.
Tim fudged in his front pocket, pushing the phone up to his hand.
“Really Tim, at the dinner table?” Laura was mocking him, light heartedly, putting it in the bank for later.
Sorry to do this Tim, but I am finding it difficult to not think of you. I am guessing you are sitting down for dinner right about now. I am hoping you are the kind of man that doesn’t check his email at dinner.
Sarah. Wow.
***
For Tim and Sarah’s second date she invited him to her parent’s house for cocktails. They were away for the summer in Africa redeeming wealthy guilt. It was a perfect summer evening. She was wearing a long, brown summer dress and leather gladiator sandals. Gold and silver bangles snaked up her arm when the vodka and soda met her lips. Her black hair in the bright sunny afternoon was off putting, too much contrast and way too downtown for the uptown mansion district. Leading him to the back veranda she raised her dress to reveal her new tattoo and Tim had to concentrate to keep his breathing even, to remain casual about seeing her upper thigh, the hint of boy short panties where the small cartoon Max from Where the Wild Things Are now attacked. The tattoo was camp, cute and approximately dangerous. Tim smiled, too cool for school and gulped his beer, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.
Later on, she sat across from him, legs crossed, occasionally shifting in her seat to offer more calve, more thigh, more forehead sweat. They spoke about silly things, about sexy things and he could feel himself stiffen a bit as she told him how dirty she got during sex or how much she enjoyed going down.
“We should stop talking about this…” He said, sipping wine and staring.
“I guess you’re right; we should stop talking about this.” She said immediately, holding the gaze, but obviously a bit disappointed.
That was eleven years ago and he is amazed at the details he remembers so vividly, considering he currently can’t remember where he left his car keys or the night of Tatum’s weekly swimming lesson. After the third date ended in indifference, Tim guessed it was just another momentarily lusty moment that meant pretty much nothing to Sarah. Her memory did not include the scent of the flowering hyacinths that creeped behind her or the hum of the hydro wires overhead. There was no memory of the occasional yelp of a small dog in the yard next to them, the street lights coming on, or the awkward heavy lidded thickness of the long driveway goodbye. He knows he messed it up and should have acted, should have stayed, should have second date felt her up. Aggression has never been Tim’s strongest asset.
Just ask Laura.
***
the chicks dig the tinger 