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The Adrenaline Runs Quick When The Queen Enters

I was writing you a txt but I scribbled here instead...

I was writing you a txt but I scribbled here instead...

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my girl
Literary short stories tend to make me dreamy. I'm fully completely captivated by glimpses into worlds, quiet little worlds full of almost nothing moments, a hint of something uneasy running beneath it all, a pin-prick connection between me and the words, the spill of blood at the end.

The story I read today mentioned the grimy car-factory town I grew up in. I didnt notice it was grease-stained for a long, long time. For one, I am fairly oblivious. For another, I lived in one of the scattered nice areas. The first house we lived in was so beautiful it was featured in Macleans as part of a feature on its architect. Last fall, I brought my daughters to my old neighbourhood. I had forgotten how middle-class it was, is. It's grown up now, trees and leaves creating some sort of lush, green oasis, a rainforest just off the north shore of Lake Ontario. I remember it more dusty, heated, sweaty and pre-adolescent kisses.

Naturally, I was entranced to be reading about my town from another viewpoint. The reality of having gay sex under soccer field bleachers and being punched so hard in the face by your lover that you need your jaw wired-shut afterward. It is a reality I stalked around later, after the divorce, when standards of living fell into the beer-bottle spotted gutters in front of the downtown houses where the boys who gave drugs to pretty girls were found. That boy who hung himself when I was in grade 11 and Josh who danced for old men in the city and gave blowjobs for cash in the park by the hospital. He got busted in the gay sex scandal, men fucking on security tape at The Bay. I really liked him but we lost touch as roaming homeless teens do. Well, I had a home to return to if I felt like it and a dad who would call around looking for me, Josh didn`t.

I liked you too. My best-girlfriend, I went looking for you after I ruined our relationship. One Friday night, I took $10.00 and hopped a bus. Someone said you were working at the downtown Canadian Tire. I`ve always been lucky, able to track down whoever I needed to see, and you were there working. I grabbed a cat toy and lined up at your cash. We got to see eachother. I designed that moment in your evening. It was spectacular and brief.

Later, I roamed the park in the darkness of late. Sounds of sordid and desperation, frightening catcalls and phrases, Wanna party?, She's hot. There was a longing in my gut, in that tummy sheathed by skin tight, tiny jeans, something could happen, something better than taking the bus back home, something worse. All I needed to do was accept the offer, make the deal, go with the flow, pop open cherry cola, swallow down orange crush. It wasn't simple pride, though I can understand why you'd think so, that aura of protection, my super-power activated, it was because I couldn't talk. And you had that smile. And you had those eyes. Or at least I remember you that way, the bit of you seen in the lighter flash. You had that wanting.

If I stood there long enough you would've asked me something kiss,

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