2001
Recovered from the exertions of your wedding night, lover? And the honeymoon?
—Fuck off.
Of course. Tell me next time you’re in Montreal.
—I will.
Good.
2002
Jane, what the fuck happened? What did I do? Tell me.
—Nothing. It’s not you. I have to be done.
Clarify.
—I can’t do this. I can’t be – his. Yours. And now the other. I can’t. I have to be done.
I don’t understand. But you know I won’t chase. I’m gone.
—Go. I’ll miss you. But please go.
Gone.
2002
Congratulations.
2004
Lover. Are you all right?
—I’m alive. Don’t fucking call me that.
2008
More new baby pics have made it my way. Congratulations, lover. You look happy.
—A) Don’t call me that. B) I am. C) Still an evolutionary dead end?
Is that an indirect way of telling me to fuck off?
—Yes.
Gone. I am happy for you. Truly.
2010
Love the new look. Hot.
—Yup.
Knowing you’re hot – also hot.
—Not for you.
Ouch.
2011
—Happy birthday and all that.
Thank you. Lover. How are you?
—Fine.
Will you come see me next time you’re in Montreal?
—I have four children. I don’t jet-set very much these days. Are you ever in YYC?
Rarely. But sometimes. Is that an invitation?
2012
I have a new client who will have me flying into YYC now and then. If that happens – will you see me?
—Maybe.
Maybe. That’s how it begins.