Page 16 of Smut

I blink, trying to absorb it all and come to terms with the crazy in the lives around me. First Rio, now her. “So then the cops busted you.”

“Yes, but they believed me, of course. Well, first they thought maybe I was a Russian mail-order bride, but I was able to prove my beauty school and everything. I showed them my portfolio on my phone and I even offered to do one officer’s makeup, but she said that would be against the law. They arrested Mr. Nigeria in the end because he had violated his parole.”

“Wait, wait…I thought you said you had a,” I make air quotes, “wonderful date?”

She grins at me, wiggling in her seat. “I did. Before all that happened, he took me out for dinner. I had the veal parmigiana. It was really good.”

I slowly nod, trying to find the joke in all of this, but I know she’s one hundred percent sincere. Which is sad. There’s being an optimist and looking on the bright side of life, and then there’s finding joy in a free meal because you haven’t had that kind of attention in a long time.

“Well, that’s good,” I say, picking my fork back up. “At least you enjoyed yourself.”

I pop the pancake into my mouth and take a tentative chew.

Very cinnamony. The syrup drowns out most of the weird flavor.

Then I crunch hard on something and pause, my gag reflex threatening me.

“Uh, what is this again?” I manage to ask, my hand coming to my mouth, the bits of pancake not sure if they should go down or back out.

“Naeris and kaneel. Turnip and cinnamon. Local favorite. Though I don’t think I boiled the turnips enough, sorry.”

I make a gurgling kind of noise in surprise but eventually chew and swallow. She’s watching me as I finish it off with a big gulp of coffee. “Well, there’s nothing worse than an overcooked turnip,” I manage to tell her.

She nods emphatically.

“So,” I say, pushing around the rest of the pancake and trying to eat around the turnip bits. “Do you think you’re going to give up on online dating?”

Her head jerks back as if I’ve said something totally disgusting. “And where do you suppose I’ll meet a man?”

“I don’t know. Like a normal person, out in the real world.”

She stirs sugar into her coffee and stares down at it with amusement. “Oh, sweet one. You’re so young, you should know more about this than me. Why don’t you give it a try? It has been some time since Alan, yes?”

I shake my head. “I don’t have time for guys.”

“Everyone has time for sex,” she says, her eyes gleaming. “Especially boys your age who blast off like a rocket.”

“Oh joy, what a pity I’m missing out.” I get up and artfully throw half the pancake in the garbage when she’s not looking. “Between hearing about Rio’s adventures on Tinder and whichever dating site you’re finding these Nigerian pimps, I’m quite okay with being my single self.”

All right, that’s kind of a lie, especially since I was having a pity party for my singledom last night, but I have to admit it’s sounding more appealing than Rio and Ana’s love lives. At least my company is predictable, and my growing collection of vibrators never lets me down, even though as I was replacing the batteries last week, one did fall off the shelf, smacking me right in the cheek. Try explaining that black eye to your mother.

I’m still feeling in a bit of a funk though so I get into my running clothes before I can change my mind. Normally I run to an ever-evolving playlist, but I fear if I wait for my phone to charge, I’ll lose my nerve, so I head out the door and start running.

I feel like mixing it up this time, so instead of heading onto Beach Drive as it skirts Oak Bay and the multitude of coves and waterfront houses like I normally do, I head in the opposite direction, running through winding suburban streets past the spires of the Victorian Craigdarroch Castle which was built by a coal baron in the late 1800s, which strangely doesn’t look out of place in Victoria.

Victoria has always had a British slant to it, one of the reasons why I, and so many tourists, find the city so charming. Even today, a typical spring day with mild temps and a gloomy sky, there’s something quaint and refreshing about it. All the lawns are manicured with perfectly trimmed hedges and crops of blooming bulbs. There’s a profuse amount of brick that you don’t normally find on the West Coast, and street addresses are done up in gold lettering. BMWs and Audis and the occasional minivan dot the tidy curbsides.

After the castle I head down Fort Street which is lined with small shops and antique stores, dodging the usual bums and women pushing strollers. I’ve never understood those people who run through a city’s downtown, especially when there are so many beautiful places that don’t have wandering drug addicts and lights and traffic and endless people, but now I kind of understand it. It makes your run more of a challenge, like you’re completing an obstacle course. It turns into a game, and I always have to win the game.

Usually when I run, I go my usual distance but never push myself to go further because running is already hard enough. But by the time I end up at the massive Empress Hotel that overlooks the harbor, panting, red-faced, and dripping with sweat, I realize that I’ve run six kilometers which is double what I usually do, and that’s just one way. I didn’t curse myself or my jelly legs even once.

With the seagulls wheeling overhead, I lean against the railing and stare down at the boats in the marina below, a few whale watching charters heading out hoping to spot our local orca pods. The tourists are all bundled in red raincoats that hang to their knees, chatting excitedly and taking pictures of everything, including me.

Against my better judgement, I wave at them, and they wave back before their attention turns to a seaplane making a very loud and low entrance onto the water.

I breathe in deep, my heart finally slowing down, and turn around to contemplate whether I should walk back or run back. I didn’t bring any money, so I couldn’t take the bus even if I felt like it. My mind during the run was blissfully blank, but on the way back I will have plenty of time to think. There’s this anxiety, restlessness running through me lately, causing my gut to twist, my heart to kick it up a few notches, usually late at night. I thought it was attributed to being without Alan, but now I’m not so sure.

I stretch my arms above my head, twisting to the side, when I suddenly see something that makes me freeze.

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