Farr - After daniel: a suicide survivors tale

1993. A WARM EVENING, LATE IN SPRING. A man and a woman, casually dressed, in their thirties, sit across from each other in a small, shabby-chic Latin American restaurant on Queen Street West in Toronto, the kind with rough, painted walls where the work of local starving artists is always on display. Their table is at the front of the narrow, candle-lit place, surrounded by the current selection of abstract murals, near the big full-length windows, now de rigueur in the citys bars and restaurants, swung open to take in the balmy air and offer the framed Saturday-night scene of the restaurants inviting interior to any curious passersby.

When they order, the young man reaches across the table and touches her hand lightly. You can have a drink, you know. It doesnt bother me. Its thoughtful of him. She had been wondering about the etiquette of consuming alcohol in the company of someone who has had to give it up; in the company of an alcoholic, that is. Assured that it is acceptable, she orders a glass of wine, he a diet soft drink. They share a plate of fresh mussels in a spicy tomato sauce.

The city is experiencing its first taste of summerthe suddenly, unequivocally warm weather that, in northern climates, seems to raise an entire populations basic happiness level a notch or two. After months of hunkering down indoors, making only reluctant forays outside, bundled in cumbersome coats, hats, gloves, and boots, trudging through a dreary urban landscape eternally clad in shades of grey, black, and brown, people are out in exuberant droves as they renounce their winter clothing with sweet relief. Theres a heavy, sensual mugginess in the air this night, and an almost festive energy along the caf-lined streets of the downtowns west end as people whiz by on bikes and in-line skates, or stroll along the sidewalks looking for somewhere to sit for a meal or a drink, preferably outdoors or by an open window. Bits of conversation and laughter float into the little restaurant, mingling with the low buzz of the people at various tables and hunched on stools around the curved bar.

The man and woman sit talking and watching the passing scene long after their plates have been cleared away. The restaurant is less crowded now, approaching midnight, and the street too. The moist air has entered that electrically charged state of stillness that precedes thunderous downpours. A rolling grey cover of clouds has taken over the sky. The breeze is gathering force, bringing with it ominously spaced drops, and soon, slow splashes of rain through the restaurants windows. A waiter asks the man and woman if they would like him to close the windows, but they say, no, its okay. Theyre just enjoying the warm wind blowing in on them, thunder sounding in the distance. The rain splashes onto the womans hand as it rests on the table. The coolness of it feels fine, she doesnt brush it away. The back of the mans shirt is speckled wet, that seems fine too. He says he could make them iced coffees back at his place, and she says, great. As they leave, the clouds release their rain and finally it pounds down on the city, a welcome deluge after a long, dry spell.

As they emerge onto the street the man opens an umbrella, putting his arm around the womans shoulders. Together they run, west and north through Bellwoods Park. Its the first time theyve been this physically close. The woman is keenly aware of it; they have been hovering tentatively on the brink of intimacy for some time now. When they first met for coffee months earlier, he was ending a marriage he said had been going bad for years. Now he is separated, and she is not sure what she wants. The last couple of times theyve been out, she has thought that he might have expected her to invite him in when he walks her to her door, but she doesnt. The last time, she was all too conscious of her growing nervousness over what might happen next, and her anxious blathering to cover it, as they approached the street where she lived. But he seems sensitive to her diffidence, with no intention of pushing his luck, and they say an awkward, shuffling Um, well, guess Ill see you then, well, uh, should I call you, uh sure, I guess so, okay, ha ha, well, see you then, bye. The man would later tease her about her obvious skittishness. You were running, he tells her, insisting she had turned on her heels and loped away from him that evening, though she thinks this is an exaggeration. By his account, he continued on up the street, feeling sure shed never go out with him again, lamenting what he presumed was his lack of finesse with women.

Shes not sure what prompted her to keep her distance, apart from the psychotherapeutically correct notion that people just out of relationships are more vulnerable than they know, more likely to make hasty romantic choices clouded by wounded loneliness. Maybe she has been waiting for him to blow it, in some hopeless, bad-date clich: rant about his ex; attempt to sell her Amway products; tell her in detail about his corkscrew collection; allude to his Hefneresque sexual prowess; dismiss any opinion of hers with which he disagrees; confess to, or unconsciously exhibit, some sickening habit; tell her fifteen minutes into their first coffee together that he is really a loner who doesnt like commitment and has never had a relationship that lasted longer than three weeks.

He does none of these things. No, to her, it all looks better, not worse, the more time they spend together. Of course, there are all the obvious common interests, the writing and editing and reading, plenty of easy shop talk. But its more than that. Its the good feeling she has with him, that he understands things, without her having to explain. Theyve both been through dark times, they are quite open about their pasts; they both want to leave the painful things behind, get on with better lives.

Now theyre in the park. The downpour has stopped, but the man still gallantly holds the umbrella over their heads. They trot along, their new physical closeness making them politely reserved once again, mindlessly chattering. The woman begins to wonder if he is ever going to notice the umbrella is no longer necessary. Then it strikes her as terribly funny, and she cant help it, she breaks away and runs on a little, laughing the way people do when they have been holding it in, when their laughter may be a distracting cover for some deeper emotion. Daniel, its not raining anymore! she calls back. Oh, he says, looking befuddled, youre right. He catches up with her, and somehow, in all the dithering over closing the umbrella, he manages to lean down and kiss her. It is a rather shy, perhaps-we-should-get-this-out-of-the-way-so-we-can-both-relax kind of kiss. Not since high school can she remember feeling such awkwardness, and she is not sure how to account for it. Still, it seems now they can relax, and they walk on, in the damp night air, a fine mist visibly suspended in the light pooling around the streetlamps.