Life is Your Story

We had met on a sleepy, Sunday afternoon, at an Espresso Bar in Old Montreal. It was the kind of day that you don't want to leave your place, or even get out of bed.  But the loneliness, creeps in, the day lingers on and you leave so you can find someone to bring home. I was sitting at a corner table, writing words that didn't connect, wondering where the missing piece of the puzzle, to my sunken love life had gone. He was at the table beside me, sketching birds flying across the sky in unison, in a shape that resembled a heart. He had sandy brown hair that he pulled away from his face, only for it to fall back within seconds. His eyes were blue and he had a cleft in his chin that I wanted to nibble. He felt my eyes upon him. We struck up a conversation. He showed me his art, I showed him my words. We didn't ask one another's names. Who cares about a name. We knew we would be leaving together.  He held my hand from under the table, stroking his fingers across the ...

What is Sunday really for ? A day to stay in your  sweat pants on the couch streaming a show about a chemistry teacher in the desert in his underwear? A day to take the kids to karate, ice skating, basket weaving and someone else’s house (now you’re getting the idea)? A day to go to the $ store for something you really don’t need and that really doesn't cost a $ ? Well - how about sex on a Sunday? As a matter of fact (completely fictitious but read on), on a recent Sunday I decided I was going to explore the Atwater Market right here in our great city of Montreal (for those of my readers from around the world - the Atwater Market is an outdoor/indoor market where vendors sell fresh produce). Once I arrived there I really had no idea what to shop for or how to “work” the market so I headed over to the nut aisle  and found a barrel filled with almonds. Now according to Dr Oz who should really be performing heart surgery and saving lives because he is ...

I couldn’t sleep. I found myself sitting on the side of the bed, negotiating with the hurricane that had blown through my life. I made my way to an all-night diner for people like me who find themselves wide awake while everyone else sleeps. All members of a club with no name and only one rule, "Don't judge me and I won't judge you." I was in need of a gentle hand stroking my back.  I needed to hold someone and be held. I needed to spend time with someone who knew nothing about me and who wouldn't ask the questions everyone asks. I needed someone to stay without leaving and leave without staying. I needed a bright shade of blue upon my weeping, blank canvas. Two stools down the counter, sipping coffee and reading  an old messed up copy of “Beautiful Losers” by Leonard Cohen, sat a man with a face chiseled and shaped by the greatest artists of all time. He was wearing a white t-shirt, faded Levi's and Converse shoes. His arms were graced in tattoo...