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“Well, if you weren't in the picture...” | trailed off.

“You wouldn't be afraid of making me a widower?” He poked.

“No... It’s just that, | would be able to move away. | could be stationed anywhere else in the country,
and not have to worry about being away from you. Your bed would feel the same at night. You wouldn't
know the difference, neither of us would”.

The waitress then leaned over the table of our booth, her waist enclosed in a checkered apron. She
laid the deep-dish pizza in front of us. The cheese bubbled on the surface; the steam rose to the ceil-
ing of the quiet restaurant, and drew a veil between our faces. He picked up a slice between his brut-
ish hands, and slapped it onto his plate.

“If | were to die, what would you do?”

He looked at me again. Initially mortified, and then distrustful. Wondering where these questions were
coming from. But | returned his stare, bushwhacking through the thicket of his frustration.

“Why would you ask that?” He retorted

“Because one of us is going first, and | want to know what happens to you if it’s me”. And after another
pause, “I’d get a tattoo. Of you. Maybe not of you, but for you”

“Where would you get it?”

“On my chest. Over my heart. Maybe some elephants, because you like elephants.”

| did not like elephants.

A few more minutes passed, we sat in silence. Trying to keep my tongue preoccupied, | passed a
bolus of cheese and dough between my cheeks. And took even longer to swallow each bite. But like a
cracked dam, my lips burst open. | couldn't resist.

“What if we broke up?”

“What about it?” He shot back.

“What would you do?”

A deep sigh was drawn from the depths of his fully belly. He wiped his lips clean, and his fingers
fiddled nervously with the tomato stained serviette.

“Well it depends... who broke up with who?” He asked.

“If | broke up with you, what would you do?”

“Same thing, hun. | would travel and never turn back. What would you do?”

My eyes fixed on the frost creeping up the window. Wondering if the arms of the frost ever managed to
migrate from the corners of cold pane, or if the sun melted them before they ever got to touch. Only to
wake up the next morning, and inevitably try again. -

My fingers resting on the tabletop, coated in confetti of crumbs.

But this was no celebration. -

“I'd move to Vancouver”

“Really?” He criticized. He was caught of guard.

“You'd just pack and move to Van? And what would you do there?”

“I'd deal cocaine”, | whispered.

“Coke?”, He laughed, “But you don’t even smoke weed! And you're telling me you’d deal coke? What
happened to representing the law?”

| turned my head, colliding with the bullets of his disbelief.

“There would be nothing left after you. Not even to salvage. And nothing to risk because | would have
nothing to risk”.

Lad
(a)
=—
Lud
=
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Laake
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Ltd
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Fas
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