Fall 2020 | Occasus | Issue 10

Sweet Pea

My lover’s hands have bird bones. Hollow cavities full of air. My hands are full, fleshy and sweaty despite the wind now cutting into my exposed extremities. The wisps of hair on my knuckles have risen in chills, and our hands grasp at each other to find a comfortable grip. Arms swinging slightly between our bodies, we move as a metronome.

Erin and I wander along Cordova, past the pillars supporting Waterfront Station like the Parthenon, and down the mottled red tiles. Whether the tiles were designed with the white blotches, or if it’s years of flattened discarded gum, remains unknown. Harbour Centre is in front of us—a view paid for only by tourists who haven’t been to the CN Tower. The water is to our left. When we rode over the inlet on the Seabus I’d shown Erin how the container cranes at the docks look like giraffes bowing their heads to a watering hole.

On the corner of Pender there’s a used book shop. The storefront is all windows and the tired shoulders of paperbacks lean against the glass, their spines curled. With a slight tug from Erin’s hand, we enter the shop. A man with a low, greasy grey ponytail is seated at the till. His eyes peel our bodies and when he gets to our clasped hands, he grunts. A loud and pained chiropractic grunt. I pluck my hand from Erin’s and tuck it in a pocket. The man huffs but his glance lowers to the knolls of pulps in front of him. I scan the titles in the piles, their pages suddenly stale. I tug on Erin’s jacket and turn to leave the store.

Back on the street, our hands find each other as the sun begins to slip behind skyscrapers. We walk a few blocks, until our intertwined fingers become numb to the embrace, and seek warmth in a café. Walking up to the counter, the girl standing behind the register is fixated on us, her forehead puckering with a scowl. We order two lattes, for here, to which she humphs and struts away. Her silence burns as she slides two lidded to-go cups in our direction. The froth from one of the lattes is overflowing and dribbles over the cup’s lip. I shake my hand loose from Erin’s and pull the drinks off the counter before leaving the café.

Drinks in opposite grips, we interlace our hands again and walk back towards the Seabus station. Some of the stores are beginning to close as the afternoon settles to sleep, and the streets are nearly bare. Shivers inch up our backs and we scamper to warmth.

 “Dykes.”

I flinch. We keep walking, eyes scuffing the pavement. I peel my hand from Erin’s and grip the drooping sleeves of my jacket.

“Hey! I’m talking to you,” the man’s voice is behind us, advancing.

Ignoring instincts, I stop. I turn to face Erin, to really look at her, her skin tinted lightly by the streetlights and pupils engorged. Her lips are slightly parted and cracked like leather. I can see the cleft in her lower lip where her teeth sink in when she’s anxious. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and pull her into me, finding the comfort of her sweet pea perfume. Feet settling on the mottled tiles, we stand together, grounded in something more than the gum-spotted marble. The man’s deriding trails off. As he walks past, I glance over Erin’s shoulder and look through his stare.

Courtney WZ is a fourth year student in SASAH and the Honours Specialization in Creative Writing and English Language and Literature. She is passionate about the intersections of the arts—primarily the intersection of writing and mental health.