Toronto, Canada.

The departure lounge.

We’ve been here forever.

It’s like a strange David Lynch movie. We’re in several places at once. We’re plural. We are we.

She sits silently framed between British Airways flight 304 to Heathrow and Qantas flight 298 to Melbourne. They dance around the tarmac in the distance. Through the large plate glass windows. They line up like stars on the horizon.

She reads.

I have no idea what she’s reading, but I’m watching her face react to the words. It couldn’t be too important. Perhaps something mildly erotic. Perhaps a story about an adventure. Perhaps something about wolves. It doesn’t matter.

I know what she is thinking.

One hundred and thirty three points to his forty seven.

She makes my heart race.

Departure lounges are inherently ironic. Public spaces designed to maximize personal privacy.

We have been here for six hours.

Chicago, USA.

Smashing their heads in.

That is what we do.

They are cute and cuddly. They have beautiful big eyes.

And we break open their skulls.

Apparently, all Canadians were raised on the seal-trade.

That's what I hear.

This is not a fact for me to confirm or deny.

Why should I diminish the fear that Americans have for us Canucks?

Yeah. That's right bitch.

You mess with me, I'll kill you like a seal.

You will look all innocent and pure as I dance in your blood on the ice.

And there you were, trying to be all cool and stuff?

Go to hell.

I club you.

Club.... Club..... Club..... Your head in.

Chicago, USA.

The human body works in mysterious ways.

Last night, mine decided not to agree with me.

I think I was poisoned.

This is neither here nor there.

My sisters are in town and they think that I am going through withdrawal.