“Hey look! Tim Hortons!” Jailed-in-Cuba Guy regaled, referring to the logo on my travel mug.
“Yup,” I replied.
“Hey, you’re not from Canada, are you?” Playground Destroyer asked.
“Uh-huh. From Ontario. Hamilton. The Tim Hortons capital of the world.” I took a swig of Enrique’s sweet drink and swayed to “Single Ladies,” mentally morphing into one of Beyonce’s backup dancers.
“Cool. I’d never’ve guessed. You look Mexican,” Jailed-in-Cuba Guy said.
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
“So what are you?” Playground Destroyer asked.
What am I? I inhaled and remembered that although off-shift, I was still an Oceana employee. “Half South Asian. Half white. Where are you folks from?”
“Winnipeg,” The wife answered, raising her beer in a toast no one joined in on, “the friendliest city in Canada.”
∆
Back in my room, I flipped through the Chatelaine and O magazines that my mother had sent earlier that week. I wouldn’t have bought them myself — I preferred The New Yorker or Toronto Life — but English-language magazines were scarce in Huatulco and I appreciated her hand-me-downs. Curiously, the envelope contained both February and March issues. She usually sent them one at a time, mid-month, and I’d missed her package the previous month.
Chatelaine featured a jumble of Valentine’s Day crap. There was advice: “10 Ways to Spice Up Your Sex Life,” “Drive Him Wild in Bed,” and “5 Memorable Valentine’s Day Dates.” And of course there were quizzes: “What’s your Romance IQ?”
As I turned the pages, I paid close attention to where Mom may have lingered, mulling over which articles might have captured her attention. I noticed the mysteries of a partially ripped page, a recipe or coupon clipped. I liked to study the pop psychology quizzes she completed, always in pencil, and later erased. I’d squint at the faint lines and indentations that remained, analyzing her financial, relationship, or communication-style scores.
I skimmed her faded answers to “What’s Your Romance IQ?” Her score was thirty-two, a Timid Romantic. Not a shock; she hadn’t gone beyond a third date in years.
I completed the survey myself, pushing hard against the somnolence of the drink. I scored fifty-five, which made me a Ready for Anything Romantic.
Perhaps it was the Atlantis Mantis, but the online complainant’s judgment echoed: Sexually inappropriate.
I put down the magazine. Yes, I might have skated the line of appropriate. Sometimes I slept with Oceana tourists, which was technically not against the rules, but certainly would be frowned upon if word got to Anita. But I’d been discreet, and had learned to limit liaisons with guests to Thursdays, the night before their departures, in case anyone became too attached or uncomfortable. I avoided single male tourists, who had the tendency toward locker-room type bragging after the fact. Couples, on the other hand, were more reliable, their discretion guided by a respect for privacy or the taboo of their desires.
I knew my interests weren’t exactly the norm, but come on, they weren’t sexually inappropriate. I mean, there are plenty of weirder proclivities than an interest in threesomes. Still, I wondered who might have witnessed my dates with couples over the previous two and a half years. I’d have to try to be more careful.
I gulped back the rest of the Atlantis Mantis and switched off the light. A boozy heaviness took me over.
Azeez
∞
The evening sky was turning pink as I walked home from Nora’s. I found my two roommates drinking on our porch.
“Azeez, you’re moving out soon, eh?” Max flipped his blond dreadlocks off his face and a cloud of patchouli wafted my way.
“Yes. Tomorrow afternoon.” While I had mixed feelings about ending my sojourn in Canada, I was thoroughly ready to leave Max and Jonathan. Our house was a filthy, rundown mess. Over the five years I’d resided there, the place had deteriorated as tidier guys had moved on and only these two remained. There was always some kind of unidentifiable grime I’d have to clean off the tub before I could take a shower. I’d taken to wearing my outside shoes everywhere in the house except in my own bedroom.
“Have a drink with us.” Jonathan cleared a mouldy cardboard box off the folding chair next to him. Max passed me a beer.
They were smart fellows, PhD students entering their sixth year of studies and still a long way from completion. Canadian students were like that, never seeming to be in any hurry, not like us visa students with more limited budgets and under heavy expectation to finish. While my parents supervised me through weekly long-distance phone calls, inquiring about my health and research progress, these guys seemed rootless. Their families lived less than three hours away, but they made brief visits only once or twice a year. I pitied their frail familial connections.
Max and Jonathan toasted my dissertation, which I’d defended successfully two weeks earlier. Mummy had urged me to return home sooner, but I’d resisted. I’d wanted to prolong my independent Canadian life a touch longer. Soon, I’d be enveloped in the responsibilities and obligations of home. My job at the prestigious Indian Institute of Technology would begin two months hence. I’d be introduced to a number of prospective brides.
And so I booked my flight for June 22, telling Mummy that I needed time to pack and say goodbye to my Canadian friends. And anyway, I’d paid my rent to the end of June, I’d argued. Later she’ d blame herself for not pushing the point more, believed that her anxiety about my return date was some sort of prescience.
I drank a second beer and we discussed Jonathan’s research frustrations and Max’s gripes regarding his supervisor. I accepted a third beer and boasted about my new academic post. And then my tongue loosened and I told them about my afternoon with Nora.
“Man, your life is golden!” Jonathan exclaimed.
“Fuck yeah. A PhD, a job lined up, and today you got some pussy!” Max added.
I didn’t think it was nice for him to talk about Nora that way, but I grinned and burped. “It’s quite golden, no?”
Ameera
∆
My left eyebrow ached. Just the left one. I pinched it, the pain pooling red under my lids. I turned over and hid from the harsh light streaming through the window. No matter how I rigged the drapery panels, they refused to meet. My stomach gurgled a distress call and I lay still, vowing to never again drink a jumbo travel mug of Enrique’s new concoction.
A dream fragment shifted behind my eyelids, and I willed it forward. There was a faint voice beckoning me, calling my name. I think it was a man’s, but it was too hoarse to identify. It had stalked my nights for weeks and sometimes its residue of lonely dread lingered through the day. It was masochistic, maybe, but I closed my eyes tight to dwell within the dream’s reach.
When Blythe flushed the toilet in our shared bathroom, the dream’s vapours evaporated. I sprang awake; it was already 9:00 a.m. and I had to be ready for the new guest orientation in half an hour. Somehow, Blythe always managed to be in the shower when I needed it.
I hoisted myself out of bed and laid out my clothes. I sniffed yesterday’s skirt and decided I could wear it another day. I chose new underwear and a fresh blouse. I left the mandatory navy-blue and aquamarine striped tie looped over the dresser mirror, dusty now from disuse. None of us wore the regulation accessory except during semi-annual inspections, except for Oscar; he said it distinguished us from the gardeners and maintenance workers, who wore similar uniforms. Really though, I think he enjoyed his conspicuous formality because it made him appear as our superior.
Blythe