(21) St. Asha’s Day In The Evening
It has been long established that Andrew was not one for texting. That particular irruption of personal sovereignty was not on his bucket list. Not that he actively maintained one anyway. The very idea struck him as silly, even when he was still a wage slave drudge. But he had discovered that folk could text him and it would somehow turn itself into an email, and his response would almost instantly turn up on their cell screens, although probably two hours too late to be of any use So as he contemplated defrosting an asparagus and smoked salmon quiche and sipped on a Sleeman’s Honey Brown to help him make up his mind, the thought of checking his email seemed incidental. But holding the cold bottle he walked over to his laptop and looked. Sometimes dithering about on the net helped him focus on some other issue. Often, of course, it made him forget the other issue entirely, leaving him to wander in the wilderness of information for forty days and nights until the whistling kettle of life snapped him back to consensus reality.
Colleen’s text said We’re at Cronies, dog tired and hungry. Join us if you dare. He sipped some more and puzzled. Jet lag rarely made for good company, and besides he’d been at Cronies just the day before and was really, if truth be told, more up for some Thai. He replied, smirking if only to himself, I’ll think about it. Colleen caught that one quick. Catch you at a bad time did we? Andrew, smirking again: Yes, vicar over for tea. Just polishing off the hot cross buns now. Colleen: We’re tucking in to the jumbo brownies. Andrew: Watch that waistline. Colleen: Two skinny bitches bulking up. Wanna meet at the Bishop’s Knickers for a drink? Andrew: Half-hour? Colleen: Sure.
They’d found a corner table and were sipping on that ladies favourite, white wine, when he arrived. Resisting the impulse to mock, he embraced Colleen and was introduced to Wendy, who seemed not to know whether to be polite or flirtatious, shook his outstretched hand and kissed his cheek. She was curvaceous in a roly-poly kind of way. Given her background Andrew knew his brain would try to pigeon hole her somewhere and decided not to feel guilty about it. Probably just a combination of naivete and bad timing had plonked her in the palms of the unscrupulous. And now divine good luck in the shape of the scheming Colleen had delivered her from the jaws of servitude to the land of enshrined human rights, hockey and snow. Making small talk while waiting for his Guinness he felt proud to be part of that democratic scheming. Money or no, it was good place to be, a haven from the insanity that the rest of the world lived with daily. Well, almost the rest of the world. A newspaper headline tossed on a nearby seat caught his eye. Another two gang related shootings in Toronto the night before, one of them in the middle of a back yard barbeque. Ah well, guess you have to take the rough with the smooth.
Wendy listened, eagerly smiling between munches of their natcho deluxe platter. Andrew imagined a long denied hunger at his elbow, but really she looked quite healthy, if such a thing could be judged in this darkened bar. He wondered about hidden bruises and then, the more subtle scars of the psyche. Would this plump bundle of smiles and chuckles collapse into a heap of weeping and wailing once the pressure of welcome was released and the psychic radar of the anxious retired? Only Colleen would know for sure.
Somehow though, this woman looked like a survivor. As Colleen chirped merrily about their adventures, not the least of which was persuading the wanna-be hubby to cough up extra for a convincingly fake work permit, Andrew saw Wendy with her own business somewhere not too far down the line. Another in the long line of Rowanton retailers of ladies’ apparel and accessories perhaps. This mini-thought raised its head and then immediately ducked for cover, leaving Andrew to later doubt it ever existed.
