53 Letters For My Lover

by Leylah Attar

  I lay my head on Troy’s shoulder as we listen to the tales, our carriage winding along the water front and through the picturesque streets of Old Town.

  “You okay?” he asks, stroking my hair. “He’s not scaring you with these ghost stories, is he?”

  “Nothing scares me when I’m with you,” I reply.

  It’s almost sunset when we make our way back. A golden glow surrounds us, rosy and warm, like the feeling in my heart.

  We dismount outside the Prince of Wales Hotel. Troy tips the coachman while I pet the beautiful horse. He puts his nose in my palm and sniffs.

  “Can I give him a treat?” I ask.

  “Sorry, miss,” replies Tom. “Treats make him nippy, but if you keep your arms by your side and let him get close, he gets very affectionate.”

  I stand still and let him nuzzle my neck with his nose, laughing as his breath tickles my face. Then he gives my wig a big lick, leaving a trail of wet goo. He stares at me, looking a little confused.

  “It’s not real hair,” I say. “Bet it doesn’t taste too good, huh?” I stroke his neck.

  “Hey.” Troy hugs me from behind. “This is making me very jealous.”

  “You, Mr. Heathgate, have to learn to share,” I reply.

  Then I cringe as the words sink in. Isn’t that what he’s been doing all along? Sharing me.

  The street lights are on by the time we get to the car.

  “Want to swing by Sweeney’s before we head back?” asks Troy.

  “Sweeney’s?”

  “David’s pub. I told him we might check it out tonight.”

  “Sure.” I buckle up. “I’d love to see it.”

  We follow the signs to Niagara Falls and take the Victoria Avenue exit. Sweeney’s is located in a low-key plaza with a drug store on one side and a dry cleaners on the other.

  “Here.” Troy grabs my jacket from the back seat. “It’s getting chilly.”

  “Could we make a quick stop at the drug store first?” I ask, slipping my arms into the black leather sleeves. The cropped moto jacket with its zippers and spiked shoulders is like nothing I’ve owned before.

  “What do you need from the drug store?” he asks when I get out of the car.

  “A vinegar douche,” I reply. “Kidding.” I laugh at the look on his face. “Some lipstick. I didn’t bring any.”

  I stop at the make-up section while Troy discovers torturous looking girly gadgets.

  “What’s this?” he asks.

  “Eyelash curler.”

  “And this?”

  “A comedone extractor.”

  He turns it back and forth a few times before giving up. “You see anything you like?”

  “Still looking.” I open another tester.

  “I like this one.” He hands me a bold, crimson lipstick.

  “Red?” I make a face. “I never wear red.”

  “You should. With those lips, you’d positively sizzle.”

  “Since when are you an expert on make-up?”

  “I don’t have to be an expert. I just know your face.” He closes his eyes and visualizes it. “Yes. Red lips look super hot on you. Too bad they don’t have a nice shade of Scary Cherry or Beet Butt.”

  “Crushed Roses.” I read on the bottom. I apply the color and blot my lips.

  The ruby red pout instantly transforms me into va-va-voom territory. I stare at my face in the mirror.

  “I knew it would look good,” says Troy, “but fuck! We’re so getting it.” He snatches a silver tube off the shelf.

  “It’s not too much?” I ask, running my tongue over lips.

  “Oh, it most definitely is.” His eyes fall on my wet, scarlet lips. “But that’s the point.” He hands the lipstick over to the cashier. “It makes me want to...”

  With blunt intimacy, he proceeds to tell me exactly what he wants to do to me. I try wriggling away, acutely aware of everyone around us, but he holds on with one arm around my waist.

  “Cash or charge?”

  “Charge.” He gives the cashier his card and goes back to whispering hot, dirty things while the line-up behind us grows longer.

  “You’re terrible.” I say when we get outside.

  “And you’re not walking like a penguin anymore. I say we skip Sweeney’s.” He stops by the car and yanks me to him. “I don’t think I can wait any longer. All I can think about are these insanely hot lips.” His thumb traces the shape of my mouth. He pulls down the lower lip and slides it inside, rubbing the rough pad over my tongue.

  “Troy! You made it.”

  We jump apart, thankful for the dark parking lot. Obviously David didn’t see much of what was going on.

  He ushers us into the dimly lit pub and holds out his hands. “Ta-da!”

  “Wow.” Troy looks around, taking it in. “It hasn’t changed a bit, you lazy bastard.”

  “Eh?” David walks around proudly. “My old man would have been pleased.”

  The interior is all wood, exposed brick and dark patterned carpeting. Comfy, mismatched furniture is arranged in little seating areas— a large four seater couch in the back, two over-sized Victorian chairs around a slender coffee table, a few booths against the wall and three televisions mounted in random spots on the wall. Apart from the L-shaped bar with stools for patrons and a make-shift stage with various musical instruments, Sweeney’s could easily be a rec room in someone’s basement.

  We slide into a small booth and David squeezes in with us. “Sorry, long weekends are busy.”

  “The locals always loved this place,” says Troy. “You still make those wings?”

  “Are you kidding? That’s Pop’s legacy. They’d kill me if I stopped serving them.”

  “Well, I am definitely going to have the wings then.”

  “Awesome. And what can I get for you...er...I know it’s not rhubarb...or radish...”

  “Beetroot,” I laugh. “Pop’s legacy for me too.”

  “Two orders of chicken wings, coming right up.”

  We watch David disappear into the kitchen.

  “We used to spend a lot of weekends here, goofing around, pretending we were helping,” says Troy. “His dad was a super nice guy.”

  “David has the same barbed wire tattoo around his wrists,” I remark.

  “We got them done together. He was going through a rough patch. Slashed his wrists one time. I found him in the bath tub.” Troy’s eyes follow David as he comes back to the dining room, balancing orders, laughing, chatting. “He got the barbed wire tattooed on his wrists to remind him never to cut through it.”

  “And you?” I ask.

  “I was drunk.” He laughs. “I went with him and woke up the next morning with tattoos around my biceps.”

  “You don’t like them?”

  “I don't regret them. I thought getting a tattoo was like an initiation into a tough-guy society. All macho and manly. But there are other, immensely more pleasurable activities."

  “So no more tattoos?”

  “Nope. Not unless I feel the drastic need to express myself.”

  “I like it.” I run my fingers over the ink. “This and your cross. They remind me of love and sacrifice and redemption.”

  He watches my mouth as I say the words and I get the distinct impression that he’s miles away, playing with a trail of red lip prints.

  “Troy? Are you listening?”

  “What?” He refocuses.

  A waitress arrives with our food, wet-naps and a complimentary basket of kettle chips. “David said to bring over the special hot sauce.” Her eyes linger on Troy.

  “Thanks,” he replies.

  “Let me know if you need anything else, love.” She winks before walking away, her hips sashaying seductively.

  It’s like I’m not even here. I roll my eyes before digging into the wings.

  They’re smothered in a tangy, buffalo-style sauce; crispy on the outside and so moist on the inside that the bone slips right out.

  “You like?” Troy
is already half way through his bucket.

  “Delicious. I can’t believe I’m so hungry after that tea.”

  “Good. Eat up.”

  “What’s that look for?” I ask.

  “Just thinking.”

  “Of?”

  “Well, if you must know...” He wipes his hands, one finger at a time, slowly and precisely. “I’m thinking of you and me and kinky stuff.” He gives me a look that turns my panties wet.

  “Can I get you folks some more?” David stops by our table.

  “No thanks. That was fantastic,” replies Troy. “Listen, it was good seeing you man.”

  “What? You’re not leaving, are you? Karaoke starts in two minutes. You have to do your thing you know.”

  “I don’t think so.” Troy laughs. “It’s been way too long.”

  “Nonsense. It’s like riding a bike. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

  Troy looks at me. “I think we better get home.”

  “This guy.” David squeezes his shoulder. “He used to bring the house down. Have you heard him sing?”

  I shake my head.

  “Do it,” he says, pulling Troy up. “Do it for old time’s sake. Heck, I’ll even go the first round with you.”

  “Go.” I smile, trying to reconcile a crooning Troy Heathgate with the one I know.

  David drags him off to the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” David turns on the microphone. “We’re going to start off with...”

  There’s a muffled discussion. David holds his hand over the mike. Troy shuffles over to the karaoke machine and starts scrolling through the selection. The two of them stand there—yes, no, yes, no. It’s hilariously disorganized, but no-one seems to mind.

  “Okay, here we go,” announces David over loud, screeching feedback.

  Troy picks up the second microphone as a dry harmonica riff introduces the number.

  “Love, love me do...you know I love you,” they start singing in unison.

  The lyrics are simple, the beat is catchy. Troy and David play off each other, singing to the crowd. A few of the diners clap along. The mood is jovial, but I push my food away and blink, trying to fight the tears.

  I know why Troy picked that song.

  Love, love me. Do. The Beatles. 1962.

  An English band for the English tea we shared, for the year we were born, for the t-shirt I’m wearing, for this happy, stolen weekend, for the simple words and the intricate truth behind them.

  So please. Love me. Do.

  Troy catches my eyes as the song comes to an end.

  “And now,” says David, “I’m going to ask Troy to sing the one song we were so sick of him singing that we used to boo him off. Oh no, no, no.” He pulls Troy back on stage. “This song....” He turns to the crowd. “I have to tell you the story behind this song. You see back then, Troy had a thing for this mystery woman. He never told us who, but after he’d had a few drinks, he’d crawl up on stage and sing his heart out. You ready to do it again, buddy?”

  “I don’t know, man.” Troy shifts uncomfortably, even as everyone cheers him on.

  David sets him up with a stool. The lights dim. A single spotlight falls on him. He looks at the microphone, holding it with both hands. Alone on stage, in his black jeans and grey t-shirt, he looks oddly vulnerable, the cross on his rosary gleaming in the light.

  This time there is only the faint chord of a guitar before the lyrics kick in.

  “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone...” Troy’s voice resonates, warm, sexy, soulful, filling the room. Conversations halt, drinks are put down, people sit up.

  He continues, eyes closed, oblivious to the stillness, the absence of fidgeting. The smoky ballad comes alive, reaching across the room, infusing the air with a truth that makes my hair stand on edge.

  He reaches the ‘I know, I know, I know’ part.

  Twenty six times in a single breath.

  “Yeahhhhhhh.” Someone applauds.

  I know, I know, I know....

  I know the mystery woman is me. It’s been me all along. All these years. I clench the edge of the table as it hits me.

  The music fades as Troy comes to the end of the song. His eyes open and he looks at me. Under the spotlight he’s all black and white and grey. Except for his eyes. This is what the earth must look like from space. All shiny and pure and blue.

  There is silence for a few moments. And then, one by one, people start to get up. The clapping grows louder as Troy weaves his way to our booth. He stops, a few feet away.

  I cross the distance between us and throw my arms around him, kissing him with all the crazy joy-pain-love inside me.

  “Woohooo!” We get cat calls and wolf whistles.

  Troy grins, and kisses me harder.

  35. ‘X’ Marks The Spot

  August 7th, 2000

  I brush my teeth and check my phone. 1:11 a.m. zero messages.

  It’s hard to believe we’ve been here for just two days. I feel I’ve lived lifetimes, like a giant, where everything big has become small and I can see farther, breathe deeper, live larger.

  I find Troy on the deck, leaning against the railing, looking out at the moonlit lake.

  “Why are you smoking?” I hop on the wooden rail and stub his cigarette out.

  He keeps his eyes on the water as the trail of smoke disappears into the night.

  “Come with me.” He lifts me off the railing, wraps my legs around his waist and carries me to the hammock.

  We lie side by side. Crickets chirp. Waves lap up to the shore. Glittering stars stud a velvet sky.

  “The moon looks bigger here,” I say.

  He brings my hand to his lips and speaks in the space between my knuckles. “One more day.”

  I sigh. It was so much easier in that other world. If you were a woman, you didn’t expect happiness, so you didn’t chase after it. If you found it, you held on to whatever scraps you could get. And if you collected enough, you could stitch together a cloak and get through life intact. But this. Having the freedom to make choices. It makes you greedy. It makes you want more when you already have enough.

  We don’t sleep that night, except for short, little pauses, drifting in and out of a crazy thirst for each other, falling exhausted, waking parched. Maybe the sun won’t come up. Maybe we can make this last forever.

  I stir when Troy untangles his feet from mine.

  “Go back to sleep.” He tucks the covers around me. “I’m going for a run.”

  “How?” I mumble, too tired to lift a finger.

  He laughs, before I drift off. But it’s only for a while. He’s back, jumping on the bed, minutes later.

  “Get up. Get up, Beetroot!”

  I protest as he pulls back the sheets.

  “Hurry.” He grabs the blankets and holds my jacket out for me.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, fumbling into it.

  “The ‘X’ on the beach? I just figured it out.”

  Dewdrops kiss my feet as we run to the lake. He grabs cushions from the chairs and throws them on the circle of pebbles. I sit cross-legged next to him, still half-asleep. He wraps the blanket around us and points to the lake.

  “Look.”

  I blink. The sun is still a soft, hazy ball of red, peeking over the horizon. It rises slowly, painting the water with strokes of shiny, vivid gold.

  I catch my breath, realizing that we’re seated directly in the line of that magnificent sunrise. As the rays grow longer, they reach for us—now a few metres away from shore, now touching the sand, now creeping up to our feet, now kissing our toes.

  “Ohhh.” I close my eyes and feel the warmth color my eyelids, like a tank being filled from the bottom up.

  Our hands entwine under the blanket. We laugh—stupidly, deliciously happy.

  I look at his face and suddenly, I know.

  His gold tipped eyelashes tell me, the curve of his smile tells me, the way my heart beats tells me.

  “Yes,” I whisper.<
br />
  “Yes what?”

  “I know what I have to do.”

  It’s not a choice anymore.

  He squeezes my hand in silent understanding.

  The sun floats over the water, a red balloon of hope and joy, tethered with the weight of things to come.

  We’re almost ready to leave when his phone rings.

  “Hello?” He listens for a second before his face lights up. “Hey, Ma.” He sits down. “I’m good. Scratch that.” His eyes fall on me. “I’m great.”

  I smile and go back to tidying up the kitchen.

  “Bali?” He laughs. “So you finally got to see the monkey temple?”

  Snippets of his conversation float into the kitchen.

  “When are you planning to visit? No, I’ll be in Mexico then. Hong Kong over Christmas. I hope so.”

  “Yes, we met,” he continues. “Would you quit, Ma? I don’t need you to fix me up with the Ellas or Bellas of this world. Yes. I’m flaming gay. That’s just a smoke screen. No, I don’t need anything from there. Okay then, maybe a silk scarf for my coming out party. Fine, I’ll get it myself. You’re mean. Let me talk to dad.”

  He chats for a little longer. “Miss you too. Yeah. Love you.”

  I wipe my hands and take one last look out the window. He walks up behind me and we stare at the swaying trees and shimmering water.

  “Whatever happens, we’ll face it together,” he says.

  It’s bittersweet, standing at this crossroad, but I know I have to set things right.

  “Come on.” He pulls me away.

  We’re both quiet on the drive back. Outside, motorists honk and music blares on the slow moving highway. Long weekend travelers returning home. The shiny, sleek tresses of my wig peek out from the bag at my feet.

  The parking lot outside his office is empty, except for my car. How can it sit, so still and unaffected, as if nothing has changed?

  “Here we are.” Troy turns the engine off.

  “Here we are.”

  He brushes the hair away from my face. I close my eyes and lay my cheek on his palm. Then I collect my things and slip from his car into mine.