episode 12: A Heart to Heart with Takara

-David-

I returned to the shop after getting more groceries, a new jacket, and a few other odds and ends. After a relaxing afternoon shopping, I was less on edge and was more observant as Takara and her grandmother bustled around with their customers. Their shop was a maze of countertops, each piled high with bundles of dried herbs, roots, seeds in bins and baskets of strange dried fruit, though again, nothing I recognized. The back wall was entirely filled with a massive piece of cabinetry housing innumerable small drawers labelled in pictograms. The old woman shot several sour glances my way even as she took odd items from the drawers for her various customers: small packages wrapped in leaves, bundles of dried herbs, wax envelopes with powders or herbs and vials with variously coloured liquids. It was quickly evident that she wasn’t just dealing with the ill. It certainly felt like some kind of apothecary, but the anxieties that I saw seemed to reflect more than the despair and pain of illness. Some customers moved with the sensual agitation of desire, fingers closing, a little desperately, on empty air, a few had the stiffness of contained rage, others the melancholy of the rejected or lonely, and some miscellany where, well I couldn’t define the emotions I saw there. Whatever this place was, it went beyond the offerings of traditional Chinese medicine.

This sense of things beyond the normal became much more apparent when the old shopkeeper went into the house with one customer. As they passed through a faded red curtain at the back of the shop, I saw a corridor that looked longer than it should have been, even for one of these old Victorian homes. It gave me an uncomfortable falling sensation.

"C’mon David," said Takara, as I gripped a counter to reorient myself, "these last few customers are for Grandmother to take care of." She led me to the door, where she turned the old sign from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’, and we headed up the alleyway.

"So what’s your shop called?" I asked, "Somehow I’ve come to just think of it as ‘Grandmother’s Apothecary’ in my head. And I haven’t seen anyone use the word apothecary in ages, well, except for a bar, yet still, that’s what I’m thinking."

Takara laughed, "You’re saying you don’t read Chinese?"

"Alas no."

"Well, truthfully, it wouldn’t help you. Most of the signage out front is out of date, some of it even belonged to the previous owner, which sold sewing equipment. People who need Grandmother find her, regardless." She shrugged and gave me a grin. "Your name is as good as any."

Somehow, her answer left me feeling a bit like I had in the shop, staring down that odd corridor — that things were not as they seemed — that Takara was being disingenuous, though I wasn’t sure why. Ever since that damn bull had shown up in my backyard, things had been feeling off. It’s one thing to write about magic; it’s quite another to think that it might intrude upon your life.

We ended up at a tiny place on Baldwin — I’d been by it many times, but it had always looked a bit too much like one of those places that would be uncomfortable to take a seat in if you weren’t with one of the regulars. Takara ushered me ahead of her. As I entered, I saw heads swivel; all eyes on me and knew my instinct had been correct. There was a Leafs’ game on at low volume in the corner above the bar — sports-fan static to the old school alternative 80s music playing marginally louder. The faces of aging punks in the booths quickly set into expressions ranging from a slightly shocked frown to an exasperated rolling of eyes, unsure as to how this skinny hipster in a pea coat had found his way inside. Then Takara entered behind me, urging me further in, and their expressions changed. "Hey, Takara, who’s your yuppie friend?" They exchanged a few snickers.

"Shut up, Joey," she said, without rancour. There were a few more chuckles. Takara essayed a few quick introductions: Joey, Arjun, Phil, and Gabby. They were all dressed in various combinations of ripped black and studs, and not a natural hair colour to be found among them, unless you saw the grey roots peaking through. But they were all smiles now, so I guess you just needed the right introduction to feel at home. Takara and I took a booth closer to the back. There were a couple of comments that combined the words ‘date’ and ‘Takara’, causing her to flip a middle finger behind her as she sat down.

Before my ass hit the cracked vinyl, an older woman dropped a couple of menus on our graffiti covered table.

Takara greeted her, "Hey, Elena, how’s business?”

"You know," she said, shrugging, "I manage." Then she raised her voice a little, "Though it’s nice to see a better quality of clientele than these ruffians."

There were some hoots of protestation — claims of wounded feelings, and I saw the ghost of a smile on the woman’s worn face.

"Can we start with some ouzo, a couple of beers and some mezes?"

"Sure thing, hon," she replied, and whisked away.

"Hungry?" Takara asked me.

"Yeah,"

"Stick with the basics — the souvlaki, the calamari, and the spanakopita. There’s a couple of other things that are okay too, but don’t do any of the ‘Canadian’ cuisine." She made a face. "Except the club sandwich — that’s great. If you have a sweet tooth, save some room for the baklava."

"Noted," I said. "I’m assuming that the beer is not from the latest microbrewery?"

"No, Black Label is the standard here. Dunno why, but the old guys here said they started drinking it back in the 80s and if it was cool then, it still must be."

"Interesting argument."

"It’s sad, really." But as she spoke, she had a smile on her face. She felt at home here. Her clothes, I realized, were much like those of the aging punks at the other tables; all she was missing was the mohawk.

"So," she said, "what’s up? Did you find your witch? Or your special effects, genius?"

I shook my head, still struck by the oddness of it, "It’s too weird, Takara, she’s from my hometown."

She grinned, "Ah, then it’s an old high school girlfriend. A broken heart left behind."

"Hah, I had two girlfriends in high school, and both of them broke my heart, so I rather think not."

"Perhaps you had a secret admirer?"

"That must be it — and she’s looking to get my attention — though I have to wonder what her overprotective husband thinks of me."

"So you’re no closer to figuring out if she’s a witch or a prankster?”

"No, she’s definitely a witch. My brother told me that much."

Takara shifted in her seat, a frown creasing her brow. It was charming.

"What?" I asked her, trying not to get distracted by her fetching mannerisms.

She looked up at me, shrugged. "But you’re sure you didn’t know her."

"No, but she was in the same grade as my brother, a couple of years ahead of me."

"And your brother got along with her."

"Hah, no."

"So maybe she is after some sort of revenge?"

"But why me then? I mean, it’s not like either my brother is having weird shit happening to him. And they still live in the area. I mean, I’d hear about it, I’m sure. My brother’s always going on about the evils of magic. He’s very devout, very conservative. Sees moral decay and the devil’s handiwork everywhere."

“Well, he sounds charming. Didn’t you try to talk to her though, your witch?"

"Oh, I talked to her," and I told her about my encounter with Ellen and Shigeto.

"Well," said Takara, "she sounds… special. What did your brother say about it all? He knows her, after all."

"Yes, well. My brother and I don’t really, um, share. You know?"

"So you didn't tell him anything?" Her voice held a tinge of disbelief.

I looked down at the table, drawing my finger through the ring of condensation left by my beer. I looked back up at her, about to explain some of the intricacies of my relationship with my brother, when I was distracted by her brown eyes and the ring of gold ring around at the outer edge of her iris. After a moment, her eyebrow lifted and there was a small quirk of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

With some effort I recalled myself, shook my head and resumed. "Um, yeah, we had a falling out a few years back. Even before then, we didn't see eye to eye on a lot of things, but we’d got along. Not so much anymore. Certainly, we have very different attitudes towards magic. I mean, I told him about the bull in my backyard — I mean, that's a great story, right?"

I paused, waiting for her to acknowledge this truth, but her gaze simply held mine, her expression expectant. She didn’t seem impatient, but she seemed entirely focussed on getting my experience the Royal out of me. It struck me that she had a predator’s patience.

"Well, he," I continued, "had all sorts of comments to make about idiot farmers who couldn’t control their livestock. Apparently Ellen had bought back their family farm a few years back. Rumour was that she'd been some sort of fancy lawyer here in town. Some sort of corporate gig. Now was doing organic farming on her old homestead. Well, if there's anything that my brother hates more than the city, it’s bougie farmers. So he went off on a little rant about how she was probably a witch from a long line of witches, and worst, some city girl playing farmer.

You can imagine that my attention was rather more focussed on the whole witch thing, cause I knew nothing about that. Well, apparently his buddy, Simmons, knew the family from way back. They were neighbours, but not friendly at all. He claims that her mother had been a witch and that it’d driven her crazy and she’d lost the farm. Then her daughter shows up a few years later and buys it all back with all her ‘lawyer money’." It was a sore point, ‘cuz Simmons had been renting their land for cheap.

Takara grunted, but her only comment was, "Odd name, ‘Simmons’."

"Yeah, it’s his family name, but that’s all anyone calls him. I don’t even know if he remembers his first name. Well, I guess he’d had some sort of run-in with the Napiers a couple days ago. The only reason the police weren’t involved was the Napiers didn’t want trouble back in town. So, they kept it all quiet.”

"Did she know you were related?"

I took a moment to bang my head against the table. “No, but she’d seen us talking, and was not well inclined towards me from the get go. I tried to play it down, but she was having none of it. Even her husband, who seems much more friendly, got quite chilly after that. They started talking about lawsuits and shit. So yeah, it was all a bit of a shitshow. And now I know nothing, except that she’s probably some sort of witch, and I don’t know if that’s good news or bad. Probably bad, but that also makes the whole thing fucking absurd, doesn’t it? I mean magic, Jesus, that’s just a fucking relic from the days when religious nutcakes ruled the world, right?"

She leaned back. Took a slow pull of her beer. "You could make that argument, if you wanted. Seems like no-one’s managed to record a credible example of magic in years. Decades even. So maybe magic is as fictional as you want to believe. Or maybe it's just that the practitioners have learnt their lesson and kept things quiet, eh?"

"Yeah, well, I’m less clear about the line between truth and fiction than I used to be. You know, I was kinda hoping that you’d just tell me I was losing my fucking mind."

She laughed, "I can imagine. Most people are not keen on contemplating the possibility that magic might be real. Even a lot of people who like the idea of it all. New Agers and hippies and all that."

"But doesn’t your shop, well, involve that kind of stuff?”

She gave me an assessing look, then said, "Grandmother has been there a very long while. There’s a reason she never changed the signs — we do traditional medicine. Back in the day, any whiff of magic would have resulted in a raid. But yes, Grandmother has a certain reputation. And several people have become unnerved after some of her… treatments. Including people who claim to be interested in traditional wisdom. Honestly, I find genuine skeptics easier to stomach. Even charming."

"Ah." I said, nonplussed. I realized she had rather sidestepped the question about her grandmother’s shop, and even her own beliefs.

Then our food arrived, for which I was very grateful. Whether it was because of the direction our conversation regarding magic had taken, or that she might consider me charming, was unclear to me. Hell, probably both, though for entirely different reasons.

I had some time to think as we turned our attention to eating. It wasn’t haute cuisine or anything, but it tasted damn good, even with the mediocre beer. Of course, the ouzo helped. By the time we’d cleared away the appetizer, I was a bit buzzed, and our conversation had veered into safer avenues, mostly chatting about our favourite haunts in the city. Me accusing her of being riff-raff, and her accusing me of being bourgeois scum. Still, there were places we both loved. Mostly those with good music. It was fun. After what had been going on, it was wonderful to chat with a pretty girl in a great dive. If there’s a better definition of a perfect day, I didn’t know of one. Still, it was our second… date? I didn’t know much about her beyond her taste in music, so I asked where she was from, where she’d travelled, that sort of thing.

"I was born here in Chinatown." And she gestured to the east, meaning the area just a couple of blocks away, centred around the intersection at Dundas and Spadina. "And I mean that, right in Chinatown, not in one of those fancy hospitals you Canadians have."

I looked at her. "You were born here; you are a Canadian."

"Oh, sure, be technical."

"It’s a habit. I was a technical writer for years."

"And now you write about witches. Quite the shift, isn't it?"

"Yeah," I said. "The technical writing was, well still is, more about paying the bills. But I want to hear about what happened after you were born into the world in such an incredibly verité and authentic immigrant manner."

"I lived with my grandmother in the Market, and got into trouble, well, little kid trouble. My school was in the same neighbourhood, just a short distance from Bathurst, a block or two behind our house. My mom and dad were out west working in the oilfields. I didn’t see much of them, honestly. I was only nine when they died. They were driving to the airport to come back to Toronto and got caught in a flash forest fire.”

"I’m so sorry," I said.

"It’s okay," she said. "I sometimes get a little sad about it, but I have my grandmother — she’s the one that raised me, really. And frankly, after seeing some of my friends dealing with their parents’ expectations — it helps me appreciate the life I lead. My memories of my parents are vague, but pleasant. My grandmother expects me to do my share of the work around the house and the shop and some… other duties. In return, I get to do what I want. If I work hard, she’ll give me the shop when she retires. I’ve watched my friends struggle for the right to owe the bank money for a fancy house. I’ll stick with the life of a shopkeeper. Besides, you can make a little money in other ways if you have some specialized business interests."

"Oh?" I said, my curiosity piqued.

"Another time," she said, with frustrating finality. "Tell me about the life of a writer. Or rather, the life of the non-technical writer."

"Do you mean the real life of a writer, or the decadent ideal?"

"You mean there’s a difference? I’m so disappointed. I’ve always loved the idea of the hard living writer — life distilled into art, like Bukowski, or Bushnell"

"Fabrication," I said. "All the writers I know write about the lives they’re too timid to embrace. And really? Bushnell? Wouldn’t you say that Sex and the City is a revenge fantasy — women get to treat men the way women are usually treated."

"You’re thinking about TV, not the book," she retorted, "and sure, that’s in there, but so what? At least there’s a viewpoint that moves beyond another fucking princess fantasy. If you want a good example of female porn, that’s it. ‘Take care of me and cherish me forever’. What kind of crap is that?"

"Heh, so you don’t want a nice husband and family in the ‘burbs?"

"Fuck no. Not that it means that I don’t want a family, maybe even a partner, but I think the whole idea that there’s this break in your life — that you get to have an experiential life before children, and you sacrifice your life once you have them — that’s bullshit. We shouldn't protect children from life; we should teach them how to live.”

"So just throw them into the thick of it? Sink or swim?" I was being cavalier, but Takara seemed to take my response seriously.

"Don’t be obtuse David, that’s not what family is about — it’s about support — wherever life takes you, family is your bedrock. But you can’t strengthen your family if you don’t understand how to live your own life. Grandmother and I may not always agree, but we always have each other's back."

I shrugged. "You sound like my brother, always on about family loyalty."

Takara gave me a look. "Where else should your loyalties lie? God and Country? C’mon, David, family’s the ones that have your back when the shit hits the fan. They’re where your life gets its real structure and meaning. Family is the history you base your life on."

"Jeez, you really do sound like my brother. Are you sure that he hasn’t hired you to spy on me?" A startled expression flashed across Takara’s face, but was gone too fast for me to really think anything of it; caught up, as I was, in my own tirade. "But no, he’d be more keen on the whole God and Country thing." I gave a brief laugh, but Takara frowned.

"Is that why you left your hometown? Family problems?"

I took another sip of beer. "You’ve got cause-and-effect backwards. It was when I left that all the family issues exploded. My brother and I had been trying to run the family farm after my mother’s death, and well, it just didn’t work out. Some of it was just a couple of poor seasons; some of it was the mistakes we made. It was sell or go bankrupt, so we sold. John would have tried to hold on, but we’d had a deal, that I’d help him until he got up and running and then I could head off to university. So I forced his hand and moved to the city."

"Jesus, that’s pretty harsh. Forcing your brother’s hand like that. I can’t imagine being forced to sell something you love. It would be like losing grandmother’s shop."

I stared at her, feeling a flush of heat rising in my face at Takara’s blunt take. My lingering shame shifted quickly to anger, as it often did. Memories of the many arguments that John and I had whirled through my mind. About his unwillingness to accept my advice despite the research I’d done. He would shout at me for being lazy — though it was simply that I wasn’t as strong as he was.

"Oh, and what’s reasonable?" I retorted, "What sort of sacrifice should I have made? One more year. Three? Five? Seven? Fuck that. I wanted to be a writer, and a good one. That wouldn’t happen if I spent my time having yet another pointless fight with my brother. So I left and went to university to make that happen."

"That’s bullshit, David. You don’t need university to write, you need a pen and paper. Why not fight for your place in the family? I mean, you just ran. If you can’t even deal with your brother, how can you expect to deal with the rest of the world?"

“Oh, for christ’s sake, Takara, it wasn't some battle of feudal succession. I had no interest in what my brother wanted. And you know, I deal with the rest of the world just fine, thank you very much. Unlike my brother, and many other people, apparently, I recognize the futility of banging my head against a brick wall. I’m more than happy to walk til I find a fucking gate. But apparently, that stubbornness is a characteristic that you both share. Family drama is overrated. I’d rather live my own life than be trapped as a farmhand or shopgirl, peering at the world from behind my grandmother’s skirts."

"Fuck you and your ivory tower condescension, Andrews. You have no idea of what my battles are, and I’m more than a little happy to have Grandmother at my back when I’m fighting them. I’d rather be a," and she used finger quotes, " a ‘shop girl’ than some corporate boot-licking yuppie. You’re more worried about the market value of your house than understanding what’s going on in your own backyard."

I’d had enough. “Whatever, Takara. I came to you sharing a confidence, at your invitation, by the way, and instead I get a lecture on a family that you know sweet fuck all about. Nor do I appreciate your condescension, because I don’t believe in fairy tales. For fuck’s sake, when was the last time there was any credible report of magic? You just don’t like stories that don’t fit into your worldview. But you know, I’ve got my brother for that, so I don’t need another person in my life telling me how I’m living it all wrong.”

I threw down a couple of twenties and I was already halfway out of my seat when suddenly Elena returned with the rest of our meal, blocking my escape. She seemed oblivious to my intended exit, merely commenting, "I’m guessing you’ll be needing more beer."

I was nonplussed  — I couldn’t get around her without pushing her aside, and so I was trapped, half-standing, half-crouched in the booth. From that awkward position, though, I could see the expressions of those clustered in the other booths, most of them registering shock. I got the sudden sense that only rarely did people call Takara on her bullshit.

Takara gave Elena a smile. "That would be lovely." She turned to me, "Please, David, please, sit down." Her tone was mollifying. "I was out of line. I don’t know your life. It’s not my place to presume. Honestly, I think I can help. Maybe."

I was still furious, but then thought about going home. About what awaited me there. I sat. Half because I needed help, and half because standing there hunched over made me feel awkward and self-conscious. As I glowered at her, Elena departed with a smile, apparently to bring us more drinks, or perhaps to take a position to tackle me should I try to leave again.

"So you might help; I just have to put up with your bullshit? Like I said, that holds minimal appeal for me. Hell, maybe I’d be better off going to those idiots at the Bureau of Ecclesiastical Orthodoxy."

She gave me a sour look, "If you think the Inquisition," she began, her voice heated. Then she paused, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. When she opened them again, she said, "Look, I apologized, right? So, are you going to accept that or not?"

We glared at each other, both of us irritated. Again, I thought about going, but I knew I wouldn’t. And I needed her. Even if she couldn’t do anything, I needed someone to talk to. I mean, my comment about the bureau was complete bullshit. I had also become more than a little familiar with the stories about how the Inquisition dealt with rumours of magic, even now. A truth that was further driven home when I’d spoken further with Jean from the Wiccan group. I took my own deep breath.

"Okay, fine. Just," I paused, took another breath, "Gimme a minute. You got me all pissed off and shit."

She gave me a bit of a grin then, "I can’t imagine why. I’m always the soul of compassion and temperance." She took a swig of her beer.

I looked at her, at the grin, still toothy, but now it just seemed mischievous, and I despite myself, I felt an answering smile come to my face. "You’re incorrigible, you know that?"

"It’s been suggested in the past."

"Huh, and I thought I’d be the first."

"Some people think that too," and suddenly her expression went from worldly to wide-eyed, astonishingly innocent.

I laughed, "You don’t!" I could suddenly imagine her playing the innocent waif, though I’d like to think that I’d see through it.

Takara gave me a considerably less innocent smile. "Including some really cute guys, find me intimidating, so I have a little fun to have a little fun. Besides, it makes them work harder, showing me the pleasures of the world and all that."

I shook my head, a little astounded at the sudden shift in the conversation's tone. Still, as charming as she was, I still needed information. "So your grandmother’s work. Would you say that it goes a little further afield than the standard definition of, um, traditional medicine?"

"Yes, and she’d want to charge you.”

"I’d be okay with that."

She paused, head cocked to one side, thinking, “I won’t lie, she’s probably the best person to talk to about this, but, well, Grandmother’s prices are not always what you expect"

I frowned, suddenly feeling trapped in a morally ambiguous fairy tale. “So, you do some work behind her back?”

"When I think it best. I’d never argue that you should share everything with family. Let me talk to a few other people, to see if we can avoid getting Grandmother involved. Sometimes she gets carried away in incidents like this. And, you know, she prefers it if customers think she’s the only way forward. Which she is, often enough, but it’s never a bad idea to get other opinions if only to keep my Grandmother from getting out of hand."

“So much for loyalty,” I blurted, before I could stop myself.

She gave me a look, a retort on her lips, then just sighed. "Look, I never said it was easy, it’s just…"

I waited.

"Sometimes you accept that family isn’t perfect, that you have to work around them, it doesn’t mean that you abandon them — simply work to deal with their limitations."

I shrugged. "That’s one option."

"So, what, you think you should just abandon anyone that’s inconvenient?"

"Now who’s being obtuse? Any relationship has to have some degree of quid pro quo. I’ve seen too many people try to fix relationships that suck them dry, or deny their validity as a person. I mean, I still talk to my brother, and just as important, he still talks to me. So by those standards, I have it good. I know people who have been rejected by their families because they’re gay or didn’t follow the right path. So yeah, I say loyalty goes both ways and that family can’t be taken on faith."

She shrugged. "Sometimes, faith is all we have." She paused. "Look, David, I know that all of this is very strange to you. To be honest, it kind of irritates me. The history of magic is well documented. Sure, recent generations of practitioners have become shy of publicity, but that’s with good reason, as I think you well know. So when I see someone who is forced to face this reality now and again, well, I kinda like to rub their face in it a little. I’m not saying it’s mature, but hey, I never claimed that a calm dialectic was one of my strengths." She gave me a smile, then. She had dimples. I hadn’t noticed them before, and it was beyond me how I had missed them. In the moment it took for my speech centre to re-engage, her smile grew a little wider.

I shook my head and said. "Maybe, but the old books are also full of bullshit, from phrenology to medieval bestiaries. I mean, really, ‘here be monsters’? It’s not exactly science at its best.

"And not all early science was ideal either. Phrenology was supposed to be science, not magic. So you gotta do that thing, you know, critical thinking? Perhaps you’ve heard of it." She quirked an eyebrow at me.

"Fine, fine," I acceded. "Then what sort of things have you seen? From the way you talk, it doesn’t sound like it’s all sunshine and light. I mean, ‘here be monsters’ is uncomfortably literal for me right now."

Her smile faded, along with her dimple. She looked down at her hands, then up at me, and shrugged. "Yes, well, some things need to be experienced to be understood, don’t they? Words don’t suffice for everything."

I recalled the night where the music had almost caused me to step off my roof. Looking into her eyes, I felt a disorienting sensation of déjà vu, and I reached for my beer as though it were a lifeline. I took a swig and decided that I needed to lighten the mood a little. Besides, I missed her smile, and the associated dimples. "As a writer, I must object to such reckless talk. Words are my livelihood. What are you trying to do, put me out of business?"

She paused, surprised, I think, at my change in tone. After a beat, her grin became feral and her voice teasing. "Pfft, I’m doing you a service, making you experience life directly." She leaned forward and put her warm hand on mine — an action that I think, not coincidentally, gave me a dramatic view of her cleavage. I forced my eyes upwards, while she continued, "or would you rather go write a story about everything that’s happening to you instead of living it?”

That comment gave me pause. I smiled. "Do I get to peek at the back page to see how it turns out?"

She laughed, "I’m afraid this is a serialized piece, and you have to wait until the next episode comes out to find out what happens."

I had to smile at her comparison and implied challenge. I had to admit that what was happening was fascinating - both as a writer and on a personal level.

"Hmphh. Perhaps I could indulge your barbaric ways, as, you know, an indulgence."

"How open-minded, you bourgeois intellectual."

"That’s high praise coming from a decadent bohemian such as yourself.

We both laughed and talked a lot about writers who’d lived interesting lives. Takara’s tastes were quite diverse, and she was far, far too opinionated, allowing no caveats or vacillations. While I loved her unfiltered enthusiasm, her university professors had not — thus explaining her lack of a degree.

"I still like taking the occasional course," she commented. "I figure I might complete my degree when I’m my grandmother’s age."

After dinner she was about to order another beer, but I begged off, "I don’t really feel like being too drunk tonight," I said. "I don’t really know what to expect when I get home. The moon is supposed to be up."

She gave me a considering look. "I’d be curious to see this magical fence of yours," she said.

My stomach gave a little lurch. Sure, she’d been a little flirtatious, but I’d thought it her predilection for drama, rather than any actual intent. Still, I’d be lying if I hadn’t hoped it meant something more. Certainly I wasn’t going to say no… "Sure, though I never know what’s going to happen. Most of the time, it’s just a fence."

"Sure, to your bourgeois eyes."

"Asshole," I said, laughing. I was, frankly, shocked at how quickly we’d gotten over what had been a tense difference of opinion, but she seemed to be past it, and well, I guess I was too.

I settled the bill, paying the rest of the bribe I’d promised earlier, and we stood. Takara linked her arm in mine, sending a frisson down my spine.

"It’s true," she said. "It’s one of my more charming characteristics."

I had been planning on taking a cab home, too lazy to take the streetcar, but we ended up walking most of the way, chatting as we moved through the neighbourhoods of Toronto, Dundas, Ossington, Queen, then home. "Did you want a coffee or something to warm up?" I asked.

I unlocked the door, bringing us into the small foyer, and then went through to my narrow hallway, crowded with a small bench, jackets and scattered boots. We were crowded together, and she made no move to avoid jostling against me as we divested ourselves of coats and scarves. My shit-stained boots still sat beside the bench at my entryway, a reminder of why I had sought her out. Takara’s attention, however, was focussed elsewhere, so I led her down the hallway towards the kitchen, passing the living room and my study.

"You wanna spike mine?" She asked.

"Sure, but I was gonna roll one, to help me relax after everything, if you don’t mind."

"I won’t mind as long as you share."

I grinned, unsurprised. "You still want the coffee spiked?" I asked as we went in.

"Yes," she said rather emphatically, "I’m not a pussy like you."

"I like to think of myself as self-aware."

"If that helps you sleep at night."

"I did mention that was part of the point."

"It’s certainly one option." She gave me a look, and suddenly I was thinking that she had ulterior motives. I’m not really sure why it had struck me as so out of the blue. She’d been flirty the first night we’d met and, well, that we’d essentially had a second date suggested that she might be interested in me. Still, I’d been so wrapped up in my own shit that it didn’t occur to me that there might be something else to her willingness to help. Certainly, I wasn’t about to deny her either coffee or spliff. She noticed the liquor cabinet on the way into the kitchen and was rifling through my selection without so much as a ‘oh, that looks interesting’. By the time I’d gotten the coffee ground she was sitting at the kitchen table with a bottle in each hand. I raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, don't be like that, I’m just deciding — strong," and she held up the Irish whiskey, "or sweet," and she held up the Kaluha.

In response, I just walked over and held an open tin under her nose. "Mmmm, nice," she said, smelling the pot. "Strong it is." She looked at the label, "really though, Writer’s Tears, for a writer, isn’t that a bit clichéd?"

I shrugged. "It’s tasty, and yes, it is. I refuse to be deterred in my tastes by other’s judgements. Besides, you don’t know my pain."

Takara laughed. "It’s true, artistes like yourself suffer in ways that less sensitive souls like mine cannot even imagine."

"I know, right?"

We both had another laugh and at Takara’s prodding, we went outside. The joint was pungent and sweet, which went well with the coffee as I brewed it. Takara and I exchanged cups for a sip. It seemed an oddly intimate gesture. We both agreed that our drinks complimented the joint quite well, be they spiked or not.

I pointed out to her the problematic section of the fence. "The moon’s not out, so I don’t know how much you’ll see."

"It’s the moon, you think, at any time?"

"I think so, but it has to be bright enough — and it has to shine directly on it, as far as I can tell. Though it still seems to work if it’s shining through the branches," and I gestured to the tree above me.

She looked up, then towards the fence, and stepped towards it, moving through the low snowbanks that surrounded the patio. I usually kept it shovelled for this very reason, the occasional joint or cigar. I watched her move, fascinated at how she was seemingly both fastidious at placing her feet, as though the snow collapsing under her feet was offensive to her, and the grace with which she handled herself. When she got to the fence itself, she rubbed her hands over it, her gloves off, and seemed to… sniff? at it.

"Huh," she said.

"What?"

"There’s definitely something going on here."

"You can smell it? You’re sure it’s not just the exudations of some sort of hallucinogenic plant?"

"I can smell a lot of things," she said. Something about how she said it made me suspect she knew how intently I was watching her, and her ass. I blushed, hoping she couldn’t smell that as well. She stepped back, took the joint from my hand, and inhaled. "Nice," she said. Leaning forward, she exhaled, the smoke streaming about me, filling my head, purging my caution, and something took me then. I kissed her. She tasted of whiskey and coffee and smoke. I felt her grin then, and the sensation of her teeth against my lips, sharper than expected.

"It’s about damn time."

I stepped back half an inch and glared at her, "Have you been trying to seduce me?" My tone was light, but my heart was hammering in my chest with excitement.

"Since the first time we met, you should be flattered."

"Perhaps I should take affront at your machinations to take advantage of a man going through most peculiar circumstances."

"Or perhaps you should just take me?"

I kissed her again.

photo credits:

chuck eugene on unsplash

josue sanchez on unsplash