The Fox and the Stud
This morning, I was sitting on my couch, scrolling through my feeds, when a roar from the back lane shattered the monotony of my socials. Nearly spilling my steaming hot dark roast all over my lap, I got up to see what was astir. That was when I laid eyes upon the most dreadful sight. There he was, The Stud, on a motorcycle, dressed head to toe in black leather. As if this image could not get any worse, on the seat behind him, his boyfriend clutched on to his back.
Okay, here is the deal, I promised myself I would not dedicate any more words to The Stud. The truth is, he has already robbed me of so much attention, I fear at this point, if he takes my prose too, I might as well be filing for chapter eleven instead of writing it. Which is why beg you, we must not speak of him forevermore.
I am writing to you now from the patio of one of Kitsilano’s hottest new restaurants: Radish. Only blocks away from the beach, this fine establishment features a lunch menu with delicious sandwiches, wine, and so much more. Tell you what! Give me sourdough focaccia with prosciutto cotto, melted mozzarella and a lemon aioli spread, and I will give you my heart. Pair that with a crisp glass of rosé and I’ll send you my buzz code.
As the pink cherry blossom petals rain down around me, I cannot help but think back to all the fictional love affairs I indulged in over the years. From my relationship with the Postman on 12th Avenue in 2010. He never stopped delivering packages, and I never stopped sending them. To my Dental Hygienist. Oh sweet, sweet, Harry. After all these years, despite my gargling, he has never once stopped asking me to “open wider.” And more recently, who could forget Pandemic Pete? His steadfast routine working from home provided me with a sense of stability during even the most turbulent times.
And The Stud? How dare you ask me? He has brought nothing but chaos into my life.
“He thinks he can just move into my territory with a full head of hair!” I squawked to my dear friend Felix the other night over beers.
The two of us met at The Heatley on Hastings, a terrific neighbourhood bar with live music and warm lighting.
“I would swear on my bag Pacey he is on –”
“Ruggy!” Felix interrupted, imploring me to stop. “Get a hold of yourself man!”
Pausing for a moment, I realized the two pint-glasses on the table in front of him were empty. Whereas mine was still full.
“Now tell me.” He leaned in across the table, “what happened to that guy you were actually dating? You know, the one you have been seeing for three months?”
“What? Who?” I feigned ignorance, taking a large gulp before sinking into my seat. “Oh, right him!”
Fortunately, at that exact moment, a band took over the stage. Even better, the volume was deafening.
“Wegotintoanargumentoveraspicyahitunarollandihaven’tseenhimsince,” I mumbled, inaudibly.
“WHAT?” Felix shouted.
“Tell me about your knife,” I spoke louder, cleverly switching subjects.
“WHAT?! I CAN’T HEAR YOU?” he yelled again.
“I SAID, TELL ME ABOUT YOUR WIFE!”
