i

Her: I had  very bad dream. You were hiding things from me. You said you did it not to hurt my feelings and I was so sad and crying—I’m still crying. You betrayed me. You broke my heart.

Jane: Oh, those dreams are the worst. But, um… do you forgive me?

Her: You broke my heart.

Jane: But do you forgive me?

It takes some wheedling, but the upshot of it is that she’ll forgive me, eventually, but I should probably take her out for a drink on sunny patio first. And as I feel guilty for having betrayed her in her dream, and as she feels still betrayed, I marvel at the human mind and its capacity to create stories and a “Why” out of flotsam and jetsam.

Let me be clear: I know I did not “betray” (what a heavy word) my friend, and she knows I did not betray her. But the feelings, damn, so real.

And the thing is, a kernel of truth: I never tell her, anyone, everything. Not so much to protect them, but to…

You: Protect yourself?

…because it’s none of their business. My aches, my pains, my dark? My own.

Go wallow in your own angst; mine is not for exhibition.

ii

Jane: Are you dying or something?

Him: WTF?

Jane: You are being so nice and accommodating.

Him: I’m being nice to you and you think I’m dying? I’m always nice to you. I love you.

He loves me, but he’s not always nice to me, and he’s rarely accommodating. But, ok, thinking that he’s dying because he wants the camping trip to be exactly the way I want it to be, even if it means hauling a pack of firewood into the backcountry might be an over-reaction.

Him: You ever think that maybe you should think less?

All the time. But it’s hard. The neurons fire, pathways form and I start to look for a cohesive narrative.

Him: Could you find one that does not involve me dying?

Maybe.

Jane: Are you moving away?

iii

I take a half day on Friday to pick up a friend from the airport and drive her 90 min out of town. I have no idea what the current state of restrictions in Alberta is right now and I don’t care. But I remember the “illegal” rides I gave to friends in 2020—several of them for COVID-19 tests—and I find myself thinking, again, how the public health policy initiatives during the pandemic constantly favoured capitalism over the human need for social connection, and how it was clear that most of the policy makers just did not have friend or family obligations and most will die alone in long-term care homes with no visitors, not because karma, but because that’s the life they’re building.

(I’m talking to you, Jason Kenney.)

You: Where the hell is that vituperation coming from? Or going?

Jane: Wait for it.

I bump into a friend walking on the river path, one I haven’t seen for months…

Them: I’m double-vaxxed! Can we hug?

I fold them into my arms. A two, three, five minute hug. We’re not that close—have we hugged like that before?

We don’t want to let go.

Jane: OMG, I’ve missed this so much.

Them: I know. I hear you’re licking everyone now?

Jane: Damn right I am. (Lick)

…

Them: More gross and less exciting than I expected. Still. Thank you.

We hug again.

iv

After I pick up my friend the airport, we go for sheesha, to a place we love, with service staff we adore. We talk about this and that, and then I drive her the 90 minutes home. It’s hot hot hot and my car has no A/C. The windows are open. We can’t talk.

It doesn’t matter.

When I get back, I meet the vivid dreamer for a drink. Which she doesn’t let me pay for, because she’s still not ready to forgive me.

Another friend joins us. We talk about this, that and the other. My phone rings.

Him: I’m at MEC. So what exactly do you want to eat on the camping trip?

I am 100 per cent sure now that he’s dying.

Jane: I will eat whatever you bring.

Him: French onion soup with croutons and cheese?*

Bastard.

He’s probably not dying.

He’s moving away.

v

Jane: But seriously. Have you forgiven me yet?

Her: No. I probably will. Eventually. But you really, really upset me.

Dream crimes. They’re the worst and apparently, utterly unforgivable.

Jane: But you still love me and we can still hang out while you’re mad at me?

Her: Of course.

Phew.

“Jane”

PS *This only makes sense if you know I’m allergic to onions, and eat a mostly gluten-free, diary-free diet.

You: This makes no sense.

Jane: Again, why do you always criticize me? Screw off.