Life as an Extreme Sport


I walk into my apartment and see clothing scattered on the floor, falling from the bag it had been so hastily stuffed into Monday morning. I drop my current armful of computer bags, clothing bags and purses on the floor next to the already established pile.

I glance to my right and see a scattering of papers and wrapped condoms, hastily pulled from my purse Tuesday before heading out. I walk to the left and see the ferrets perk up to see me. I scatter them a few treats and sit down at my computer. Web mail showed it had last been checked from here on Tuesday the 12th. The ferrets cage needs cleaning.

Walking into my dining room, I notice remnants of dinner many nights now passed, still needing to be washed, wiped and put away. The floor needs to be swept, ferret food scattered from haste across the grey linoleum.

I dig my toothbrush from the bag and walk into the bathroom, I attempt to scrub the taste of inhalers from my mouth. I walk back to the computer and check my eMail – nothing. I wander upstairs and check the phone messages – nothing.

I pause on the stair landing and listen. I hear nothing. I don’t hear the quiet steady sound of the Bay breathing, I don’t hear the humming life of the harbour or the sound of steelbelts on the blacktop. The silence is not punctuated by a foghorn or the scream of a siren racing off to some distant emergency. I don’t hear the sound of another breathing nearby, I don’t hear gentle rustles from moving paper or the light tap-tap of fingers across a keyboard.

I move, not down the stairs but back to bed. To rest under heavy covers, to close my eyes and wait for motivation to overtake me. To hear the phone ring and reach in eager anticipation. To sleep. To hear the sound of footsteps on my stairs, unlocking of a door, steps winding their way to me, to hear clothes drop and blankets lift, to feel a body near me once more. If only in my dreams, to hear these things. If only in my dreams.