― Jonathan Swift
Elaine
I went home from the flu clinic feeling perturbed and it had nothing to do with adverse effects from the vaccine or grim jokes I shared with the girl administering the shot.
There have always been conspiracy theories from the dawn of humanity although they weren't always known as such―they may have been termed myths, or religious beliefs, or during the Middle Ages, seriously pursued by otherwise brilliant men vainly seeking that elusive fifth element that came to be called The Philosophers' Stone.
The ancient Chinese even had a myth about a white hare distilling the elixir of life on the Moon. I like that because of its naive Wonderland quality, as charming as a Chagall painting of a world that doesn't exist but you still wish did.
It's a cool fall afternoon with a temperature hovering around 50 F and a crisp nip in the air. To the east, the sky is filled with fair weather cumulus barges, but black, grey and blue clouds are rolling in from the west.
Today's the autumnal equinox and the days are getting shorter all the time. I check my cell phone and it's half-past four―time enough for me to go home and change and go for a jog before it rains or begins to get dark.
It crosses my mind that if I hurry I might run into Cindy out for a run or even waiting for me by the cutoff. I know it's a fantasy, but it's comforting―besides, the alternative is too final and depresses me.
I hurriedly change into my jogging gear and put out fresh kibble and water for Albert who affectionately is purring and rubbing against my legs trying his best to cheer me.
I know, pathetic I have to cling to his feline affection, but right now it's all I'm getting and nothing else seems to be working for me.
I'm not a victim, I repeat in my head. It's my new mantra and I think it's helping, but what would really help would be Cindy talking to me, but I think that bird has fled.
There's nobody waiting at the cutoff and no sign of Cindy on the trail.
The run is more labour than joy and I'm surprised I'm winded and have to rest at the halfway point the way I used to before jogging with her.
Did she make that much of a difference? I wonder, or am I reacting to the flu shot and should cut back a little for today at least?
I conclude it's probably a little of both and take it easy on the return leg.
As I draw near to my townhouse I find myself scanning the porch hoping Cindy will be there but she isn't.
At this point, I'd be happy to see Lori. Okay, maybe that's pushing the envelope a bit too far, but I realize I feel lonely.
I hop in the car and drive to Tim Hortons to get a chilli dinner for supper and coffee and a dessert for later. I know exactly what I'm doing, but fortunately, Lori's not there and none of her pack either.
At least Elaine is happy to see me.
She adds a couple of cheese croissants to my order and smiles sympathetically. She knows something, but isn't telling me―that's okay, I've had enough stress for the day and just make it home before the rain comes down.
It’ll be another night before the fire with Albert. Maybe I can work on posting a story to the story praxis website—it beats watching cat videos on Youtube.
There’s something about storms at night that are visceral and awaken primeval instincts in me.
Curled up on the couch before the fire with my stomach full and a glass of cab sav makes me feel mellow and drowsy.
The patter of rain and grumble of thunder are mesmerizing and before long I find myself drifting off to sleep.
I begin to dream I’m out in the woods hiking and a storm begins to roll in. There’s someone with me—a girl, but her face is indistinct.
We have only some basic gear—a water bottle, matches and a lunch we packed.
I look around for shelter and spot an overhanging ledge we can shelter beneath. She gathers wood for a fire and I find some fallen tree branches and build a makeshift lean-to wall to keep out the wind.
I also find some large stones to make a primitive fireplace.
The storm finally hits just as we finish our shelter so we huddle together, backs to the wall, safe from wind and rain and warmed by our fire.
“I love you, Callum,” she whispers, as she clings to me in our lair and I know a strange delight I’ve never felt before.
And suddenly, the lightning flares and in the glow I see Blair Sommer’s lovely face