We’ d dated in six-month increments. When we were together we’ d swear we were right for one another. We’ d leave whomever we were dating and have an intense affair. Then we’ d break up, parting with almost as much certainty as when we’ d reunited. During our breaks we’ d date other people, avoid texting, and remove one another from our Facebook news feeds. But soon enough we’ d end up bumping into each other at Jackson Square Mall or out at a concert or gallery opening. And then, as though in some kind of evil carnival hypnotist’s trance, we’ d fall into one another’s arms, dopey and happy and forgetting that we’ d end up miserable.
A few months in we’ d remember (or finally admit, again) that we weren’t compatible. He was fairly sure he wanted marriage and kids and I was fairly sure I didn’t. A deal-breaker for us both. My friends joked at the reversal of gender roles, called me a commitment-phobe. But that wasn’t it. I was a romantic. I liked relationships, loyalty, commitment. I just didn’t want to do it his way. I’d never pined for weddings or baby showers like most of my friends. I guess I hoped he’ d change and he imagined that I would, too. Number one on the list of things not to do in a relationship.
Two months before I left Canada for Huatulco, we were broken up, the fourth time in four years. A mutual friend was having a birthday party at the Slainte bar. I knew he’ d be there, too, but I thought I was over him. I wanted to be over him. I’d heard he was seeing someone else and was happy. They were engaged. I thought it would be safe.
I was the composed ex-girlfriend. I greeted Tamara, his fiancée, with an enthusiastic hello and graciously exclaimed over her sparkly cliché of an engagement ring. Gavin and I hugged hello, my right hip tingling where his hand had brushed over my jeans. We retreated to our separate corners. Later, we gazed at one another across the pool table and before I knew it, we were in the back alley, my tongue in his mouth, his hands up my blouse, me unzipping his pants. He came fast, with a howl and a laugh and a look of wonder. Pleasure was like that for Gavin, an unexpected, gleeful novelty. Without missing a beat, he slid his hand down my jeans, past the elastic of my underwear, and inside me. Every inch of me vibrated with his touch.
The back door slammed and Tamara and two of our friends wandered out for a cigarette. He pulled away from me, and one of my breasts flopped out of my bra. I stuffed it back in and his stickiness, still on my fingers, smeared across my blouse. He ran inside, following his girl, while my friends sighed and shook their heads. “Oh come on, Ameera. They’re engaged,” Robyn said with a sigh. She said engaged like it was something sacred.
“They’re happy together. And it never works out between the two of you,” Jennifer counselled.
I got the feeling that my friends blamed me for what happened, even though Gavin was equally responsible; they didn’t invite me to two subsequent parties, but did include him. I heard that he and Tamara repaired things, and two months later, I left for Mexico, hoping for a fresh start. I’d meet someone new, or focus on my career for a change. Or something. I hadn’t been home since. I wasn’t ready to face everyone, especially Gavin.
∆
I reread Anita’s words, looking for meaning between their straight lines. She was a fan of emoticons and her writing style was typically informal, but this message was concise and cold. Perhaps Nancy’s recent firing had got everyone at head office riled up. But Anita liked me, I knew that. I sat up tall, rolled the kinks out of my neck, and reassured myself that everything would be fine.
Azeez
∞
Nora’s place was a small room just around the corner from the coffee shop. Like my own, a few blocks away, it had space for a desk, a dresser, and a single bed. She fiddled with her boom box, popped in a Duran Duran cassette, and then flopped onto the bed. She beckoned me over from where I stood awkwardly by the door. I sat gingerly beside her and she took my hand. I wasn’t surprised by the gesture; she’ d slipped her arm through mine on the walk over.
She leaned in close and I could tell she wanted me to kiss her. How unshrinking and unafraid Canadian girls were! I pushed my face into hers, and didn’t breathe for a long time. I wrapped her in my arms and she let me hold her tightly.
We talked and kissed for hours. My fingers groped her soft waist, the downy peach-fuzz on her arms. When I gazed into her eyes I sensed a rare and special connection.
And then suddenly we were tearing away our clothes.
In my fantasies, it would have happened in cinematic slow motion. Unhurried, we’ d have progressed to that point over several romantic dates. And when the disrobing finally happened it would be an alluring striptease. Perhaps in reality things always move more quickly.
∞
I left soon after the sex, lying to her about needing to get work done. I never did tell her that I would be on an airplane the following afternoon, but rather, I remained vague about my departure, speaking about the future as though it were more expansive than it was. Perhaps I didn’t want to disappoint her.
I promised to call the next morning. Maybe we’ d go for an early lunch. She gave me her number and, foolishly, I forgot to offer mine.
Ameera
∆
After replying to Anita’s e-mail, I headed to the bar. Enrique’s long arms were all fluid motion as he served three customers at once. He glanced up, mid-pour, and puckered his lips into an air kiss. I held my breath until he released me from his gaze.
He’ d been a big flirt from the beginning. When we first met, he complimented me on a sundress I was wearing, and since then, when I dressed in civilian clothes, I imagined his lustful eyes leering back at me through the mirror. That colour is perfect for you against your brown skin, Ameera; you should show off your back more — have you been exercising?
I hummed along with Katy Perry’s “Firework,” which blasted from the bar’s sound system. Enrique tended to the next person in his line, a giggling brunette in her twenties, who was momentarily caught in a ray of his sunshine. I swivelled my stool so I didn’t have to look at her.
I recognized a pair of men from my bus standing next to me. The two near-strangers were exchanging drunken holiday tales while they slurped cans of Tecate.
“Back in the DR, I stayed at a mega resort like this one. It was so big, me and my buddies stole one of them golf carts? But then we ended up smashing it into the kiddie playground. Yeah,” he said, nodding, acknowledging his new friend’s look of admiration, “I had a blast.”
“I was jailed in Cuba!” the other man pronounced. He told a disjointed, barely believable story about driving without a licence and successfully bribing a police officer with Chiclets and a ten-dollar bill. “Ten dollars Canadian!” he boasted.
Playground Destroyer wobbled on his sandaled feet. His wife brought him a grilled-cheese-and-ham sandwich. He grabbed her left buttock, picked up a triangle, and shouted, “Ham and cheese! I read about these sandwiches on TripGuide! Ham and cheese! Now this is the money shot! The money shot!”
I guffawed loudly, but they didn’t notice.
“Not so loud, hon,” the wife shushed, tucking herself into his embrace.
Just then Enrique made it to my end of the bar. I passed him my travel mug, and he filled it from a jug from under the counter.
“It’s my new drink. The Atlantis Mantis. Try it. I want your opinion.” I was about to protest that I’d wanted a Cuba Libre, but the warmth of his hand on my shoulder pacified me.
“What’s in it?” I peered into the dark liquid.
“Vodka, rum, mint leaves, cranberry juice, and ginger ale. Be careful. It’s sweet but fuerte.”
“Ham