Erica Cameron
Dinner
“The herbs are from the garden”, you say.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, “the plating”.
No one wants to make the first move although we both know
you already did.
We stare at each other like this.
“I got the butter you like” you say,
“The kind with four sleeves in the box”. “Less messy” I say.
Although I haven’t picked up
my knife, I can see the butter is
still too hard
“What time did you take it out?” I ask
“An hour ago.”
“ah.”
Outside the streetlights flicker, one after another. rumblings from the last Gotrain vibrate through the walls.
From the kitchen, the timer will eventually ring telling us dessert is ready. We’ll dish it onto little plates together and
return to our seats.
How to Watch a Friend Die
Grab a cup of tea
and sit on the porch, notice rust
growing on your bike,
kids playing bubbles across the
street. How elaborate
this simple game has become; a
machine manufacturing bubbles, a dim roar
as kids dance in the giant bubble glory.
Make a mental note to buy WD-40
Go on a date.
Hell, go on several dates
Lower your standards and your neckline.
“Always in your neighbourhood, never his.”
Let him pay. Drink more than you should.
Let him tell you your ass looks good
in those jeans. Let him tell you
you’re hot. Listen to his life story.
They want this and need this. Be a good listener.
Go to a park and make out with these
boys way past midnight. Let them
kiss your breasts and hold you around the
waist with deft hands, let them walk you home.
The following morning, grab a cup of coffee
and sit on the porch. Call your friend and tell her you
made out down the street from where she lay and it was hot.
Tell her you followed her advice and she is right, it
really does just come down to tight jeans and listening
Buy A Simple Dress
Buy a simple dress. About two fingers above
the knee. Black sandals. Thin straps-thick heels.
Walk the dog in them. Pick up the mail in them. Stand
at the bus stop checking the time in them.
Accept a ride home with a colleague. Let him
tell you about his day. How the kids in his fifth
grade class are liars. Smile graciously. Let him
tell you about his new car, how he bought it with
Inheritance from his dad. Tell him
you are sorry for his loss.
Delicately Interrupt his story about
the jammed copier – your street
is coming up on the right. Cross
then uncross your legs. Tell him the copier
on the third floor jams a lot too.
Accept his offer to pick you up in the
morning – The train rolls out at 7:20 –
Tell him you look forward to it. Tell
him you are sorry about the liars.
Erica Cameron is a writer/teacher living in Toronto, Canada. When not writing, she can be found reading, looking for the next book to read, or biking aimlessly around the city.
