Dreampepper

Saturday Night: Crawling up the I5, radio on, I put a spell on you, watching Seattle fade from the windows, I flashed upon The Power Of Ten, a science-fact short film on-line that zooms out, then zooms out, then zooms out again until the screen is only full of stars. Somewhere, in all that tall glittering chaos of Saturday night dreams and entropy, he must have been walking. Head down. A tangle of black hair. Easy to lose in a crowd. Then, out. And all I can see are buildings, streets garishly flooded with cars, cruising teenagers. A minivan of boys cat calls at us as we cross an intersection, I wave at them and Nicole laughs. Out. Now it's a city reflecting poorly into water. The rooftops of skyscrapers, threateningly postcard perfect. She asks me if I have a comfort food, a cookie, maybe, shaped like a musician, large enough to cuddle with. "I wish I'd kissed him more".

Saturday morning: Getting on a plane, Beatles music humming in my head, because the world is round, it turns me on, bland colours, folding clip seatbelts, as waiting becomes doing, fearful of cold, becomes the air over the Cascades and a pair of new gloves. My carry on, a camera, a book, a borrowed memory card. Seat by the window. Shoes off, wondering if I'm going to come back with all my toes. His voice echoing up from Texas.

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Calgary and Edmonton are both showing temperatures of minus twenty something. I can't even fathom minus twenty-something anymore. I don't think it even hits minus twenty on top of the mountains here. In practical terms, what does that even mean? I fail at being Canadian. Sure I own a vintage beaver fur logger's hat and chug maple syrup like it's water, but I certainly don't go to Tim Hortons, understand hockey, say "eh?", appreciate the Blue Jays, smoke pot or understand temperatures below minus six.