“I am planning to put some pictures up. I know how it looks,” Patrick said as he ushered his guest through the spacious and sparsely decorated living room and into the kitchen.
“Of course,” She replied, just as she’d replied during every visit she’d made since he’d taken ownership of the loft.
“I mean, I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Six months and it still looks like a warehouse or something.
“No, No,” She soothed, I think it’s nice. It’s… roomy.”
“I know you all think I’m not committing to this whole change your environment change your life plan blah, blah, blah. But I totally am. Not that the whole commitment thing has worked out for me so far, ha ha.” He said pouring her a cup of coffee from the impressive looking espresso machine on the counter. The elaborate chrome and eagle-topped contraption had been a wedding present, and the only thing he’d taken from his last kitchen.
And, as far as she could tell, it was the only thing he had added to the new one.
It was like that all over the house. Bare rooms spotted with odd and impractical remembrances of his married life. A gilded music holidng wet towels in the bathroom, a large oak humidor used as a TV stand in the bedroom. And a wrought iron garden bench tossed with mismatched linen pillows in the living room where he was now directing her to take a seat as there was no other chair in the place.
“So, speaking of horrible failures, have you talked to her lately?” He said far too brightly to convince her that he wasn’t desperate for news.
“Pat honey, I thought we agreed to skip this whole nightmare topic for a while,” she said wearily. She’d tried to say it humorously, forcefully and even pleadingly in past visits but with very little success.
“Yeah. Sure, whatever. That’s totally fine. I don’t even really care; I was just asking to be polite…. And, you know, because she was only the freakin’ love of my life and one true soul mate,” he added with a lopsided grin that would have broken her heart if she hadn’t begun to steel herself against it months ago. So she simply changed the subject.
“How’s work?”
“Oh work’s work. I show up, slap on my natty headset, tell a few people that maybe they shouldn't off themselves, punch my time card and come home.” He replied, absently stretching his long legs out to meet the upturned wine rack-cum-coffee table. Cherry would she guessed, expensive, and notably empty.
“Well, that just sounds like hell.”
She often worried about his decision to work at a suicide hotline, more so now that Brit had left him. But even when he was having a relationship with the lady herself and not her absence, he’d never really been one to look on the bright side.
“Oh don’t worry. If I was going to kill myself I’d do it because she’s left me to wallow alone in my own mad and obsessive love for her. Not because some fat fucker in Etobicoke can’t get laid and hates his gay father.”
“Comforting, that’s really comforting Pat. So that’s work taken care of. What’s the next topic of conversation you’d like to bring to a screeching halt?” She asked wriggling forward to dislodge a metal rose from between her forth and fifth vertebrae.
“Health? Let’s see. I went to the doctor for my physical on Tuesday. So far no doomsday calls, and for the first time in six months I had someone caress my balls without paying for the privilege. Thank you OHIP!”
“Oh Christ. Well, that covers your sex life too.”
“Yessiree. We are just whipping through this visit buddy.”
“Well it does help that you haven’t bothered to make any inquiries into my health or well being.”
“Oh. Sorry. I have been wondering…. Pregnant or just bloated?”
“Hilarious.”
“Seriously, how are things in Utero?”
“So far, so good. Have the first ultra sound scheduled for next week.”
“Can you get photos of that?”
“Uh-huh”
“Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Wow, two in a row? I’m flabbergasted, let her rip.”
“It’s not mine is it?”
“Well seeing as we’ve never had sex, I’m thinking it’s not.”
“I guess. Though you do use my toilet. A lot. Every time you are here. And maybe sometimes in my excitement I’ve missed the mark a little?”
“O.K. So now I am picturing you masturbating into the toilet and I am a little nauseous. What I am not, however, is carrying your baby, which you would know if you had paid any attention to the public health nurse in Seventh grade.”
“Pity. If it was mine you could send me the ultra sound and I’d have something to hang on my wall. Maybe I’ll be the godfather?”
“No chance jack off Johnny.”
“Nice talk from the pregnant woman gulping down a double espresso. I wouldn’t want to be any kind of father to your junkie baby anyway.”
“Maybe it’s better when we do only talk about you.”
“I miss her Sarah.”
“I know you do honey.”
