2011 Retrospective - Over the Hill

Ten little ducks went out one day
Some over the Hill, some Faraway
Mother Duck said "Quack quack quack quack"
But not one of those little ducks ever came back


 It’s nearly night, the smog overhead darkening fast. I’m waddling fast, trying to get somewhere safe before dark sets in. Oh Mother, I don’t want to be out in the dark. No sane duck does. The things that can’t face the twilight of day, well, nobody wants to face them either. My stomach rumbles at me, today’s foray did not go well. A few grass seeds, those not too scale-blighted, a relatively normal beetle, but not much else. Truth be told, there’s not much else to be had in this blighted land. Still, I scrape by, somehow. Something black and sinuous begins oozing from the shadows to my left, I have to hurry. The last place I slept comes into view, silhouetted by floodlights from the Hill. Square stone and cement form a squat bunker, open on three sides. The last light gleams dully on the glassy surface of the water that encircles the bunker completely. The water that keeps it safe. I speed up, the webbing on my feet slapping the ground. If I can get to the bunker, get over the water, I will be safe. Nothing will touch that, not without a price. The breath whistles in my beak as I sprint towards the bunker, strange things seeping out of the shadows all around me. I push off with my legs, flapping desperately with my wings. I can’t touch the water, I value my legs after all, but if I go too high the chemical smog overhead will leave me not much better. But this time I’ve made it, I’m safe, thank the Mother.  I enter the bunker, eyeing the long troughs with a sigh. They used to fill with grain, once. No-one knows where it came from, but it was clean and wholesome all the same. People used to gather at bunkers like these, when the grain came. I was hatched in one much like this. The Faraway didn’t bother us when we were in such big groups. But the grain stopped, and those peaceful little gatherings ripped themselves apart for whatever was left. They’re abandoned now, which is good for me. You can’t trust anyone any more, before you know it they’ll be stabbing you in the beak. Much better to be alone. This one has protection, and pure drinkable water at any rate.

Pebbles clatter on one another. I freeze, eyes probing the shadows inside the bunker. A shape comes into view, waddling slowly towards me. Grit, this is just what I need right now. Another duck muscling in on my hideout. Still, I wouldn’t send a duck out on a night like this, or any night, so perhaps a truce is in order. In the twilight I see a chipped beak,  dirty feathers and a milky, pure white eye. Mother help me, it’s Faraway. I try to back slowly out the door. I don’t know how much Faraway can see, but I definitely don’t want it noticing me. How the pluck did it get in here anyway? I thought all Faraway had been clipped. My foot dislodges a stone, sending it clattering down the slope to ripple in the water below. I freeze, hoping against hope… With a quack, it launches itself at me, wings flapping in rage. Pluck me! I throw myself to the right, but it twists itself and keeps coming in great, flapping bounds. I jump, trying to come down on it from above, only for its head to snake up under my wing and clamp on with unavian strength. Motherplucking piece of grit! I’m on the ground now, kicking at it as it twists my wing around, nearly out of its socket. Something cracks, a thrill of agony shivers through my body. I clamp the Faraway’s neck in my beak, hardly noticing my tongue as it rebels against the foul taste. With adrenaline-fueled strength I kick out, ripping its hold and sending us both skittering down the slope towards the water. My wing hangs limply, but I ignore it, pushing with all my strength. The Faraway pecks at my breast, pain lancing through me with each blow. Suddenly its beak is around my neck, and I’m having trouble breathing. White eyes stare at me as I struggle for breath, one working wing beating vainly at it. Red and black encroach on the edges of my vision, my head pounds to the beating of my heart, hoping for a single breath of air. With a despairing whisper of a quack, I bring my head up and slam it down upon the Faraway’s. It slips slightly, and strength flows into me with the precious oxygen. Again, our heads collide, making me dizzy all over again. I gather my strength, raise my head high, but this time I lead with my beak, a crushing blow aimed directly at its eye. A viscous fluid spurts into my beak, making my stomach rebel. The Faraway slips further, quacking softly as it touches the surface of the slick blackness surrounding the bunker. The water hisses and bubbles madly and the Faraway is once again in a frenzy, of pain this time. I can do nothing but watch as it slips further and further under the surface, its maddened thrashing availing it nothing. Then it is gone, and everything is quiet once more.

I stand outside the bunker, catching my breath and trying to both spit out and forget whatever it is that I’ve got in my beak. I turn back to the bunker. Oh no. Oh pluck me, no. Standing atop it, starkly lit by the floods from the Hill, is another Faraway. White eyes stare at me malevolently. Mother help me, I can’t do that again, not with my wing all but useless. I have to run, if I can get past the water I thought would protect me. The Faraway isn’t moving. What is it waiting for? Whatever, I doubt it will be good for my health. My shoulder screams as I raise my injured wing, fixing it in place. The pain makes me nauseous, but this is the only option. I just thank the Mother I’m uphill from the water. I hear a squawk behind me, the Faraway is following. I throw myself across the water once more, shoulder creaking as I try to hold my wings up and glide. The Faraway behind me hisses in rage. With a sickening crunch I feel my wing collapse, sending me spiraling towards the water below. I land on my belly, injured wing pinned beneath me. Sparks of black and red flare, I’m almost blacking out. I feel more than hear the roiling behind me, my tail is in the water! I scream and lurch drunkenly away, blood dripping from a thousand lacerations. Pluck me, but it hurts, hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I collapse in the dust, tears running down my face and dripping off my open beak. It hurts, it hurts so much.

Through the pain I hear wings flapping behind me. Please no, please. Mother, let me rest. The Faraway is on my side of the water now, it’s only a matter of time before it sees me, lit up as I am. If I move it will surely see me, and even if I make it to the shadows, well… no doubt it would be worse than whatever the Faraway could do to me. It waddles closer, and I stagger to my feet. I’m not quite ready to give up yet. Mother, not yet. The floods light up an avenue, beyond which the darkness is crawling. I have to stay in the light. There’s a pile of tumbled rocks just visibly lit, so I waddle towards it, only to find the hissing Faraway barring my path. How does the plucking thing move so fast? My only option is the Hill, then. I turn, stumbling blind through the bright lights, and the chase is on. It harries me towards the hill, hissing and pecking whenever I try to deviate. Eventually I can’t do anything more than push myself ever upwards, faint from the pain of my wing and tail. The Hill itself rises above me, a hunched edifice of rusted steel and dustblasted glass. Floods just like mine spear through the night, other ducks traveling along them as I am. So many! More than I’ve seen since the grain stopped. Behind every single duck a Faraway follows, herding them up to the Hill. Why are we being taken to the Hill? Black stacks rise out of it, belching that choking deadly smog into the atmosphere. A terrible cacophony fills the air like distant thunder, the roaring of flames and the clang of metal. We’re almost to the crest of the Hill now, and I’m filled with a terrible foreboding, all the warnings of my chickhood filling my head. Over the Hill, and Faraway… But not one of those little ducks ever came back… What is the Hill, and why are the Faraway taking us there? Why doesn’t anyone come back? If it is paradise, why doesn’t someone come back to tell the rest of us?

I reach the top of the Hill, and I can’t do anything but stare wearily. Down below me is a rusted and pitted slope of metal leading down to the shadows. The floods don’t light the way down, but I guess they don’t need to. The Hill is a massive funnel extending to either side of me, and I can see Faraway along the rim, pushing ducks down into the darkness. Why? Mother take me, why are they doing this. I turn around for the last time, and a hissing ball of fury knocks me down into the darkness. I tumble down the metal, wing and tail scraping painfully, quacking dementedly from the pain. A faint mist breathes across my face… and the pain is gone. There are even lights on inside the Hill, though I can’t tell where it comes from. I feel like laughing for joy, pure happiness rushes through my veins. I chortle in glee as the feathers are ripped from my body, leaving bare and bloody skin; laugh in glee as my legs are hacked off at the knee. The last thing I see are the friendly flames spurting out at me, making my skin crackle and my flesh broil. By the time my bones are ripped out and my flesh shredded, I am long gone.

The wind stirs bleached dust on the blasted landscape. Nothing moves, save the factory spewing noxious smoke up on the hill. A massive structure of metal and glass in an enclosure of concrete and stone, surrounded by low bunkers and parasite-infested water. This factory gleamed once, but it has been a long time. The feed tubes have all stopped, but the thralls still herd their undrugged counterparts into the massive intake funnel. Out the other end, a multitude of conveyor belts throw out box after neatly packaged and clingwrapped box. The boxes pile high, spreading out over the cracked and blighted plain. No-one has eaten one of Grandma Hill’s Famous Duck Pies in over fifty years, and no-one is left to ever do so again.

The factory grinds on.

2011 Retrospective - A Week and a Day

Thoomp thoomp thoomp thoomp. The music beats and pulses around me, filling my head and making me dizzy. Bright lights shine and flicker, dazzling my eyes as they play along the bodies amassed around me. All of us, moving to the one rhythm, all in tune, together. We jump up and down, our hands in the air, we weave around each other, seeing flickers of smiles in the strobe. I feel dizzy, lightheaded. My body keeps dancing, moving all on its own in a primal response to the music all around me, but my mind drifts- and I think back to the start...

It’s over! School is finally finished! Oh my god, I’ve been waiting for twelve years for this! Now I can look back on all the work, the toil, the sleepless nights and horrendous days and think... I’m done. It’s finished. I’m free. Me, and all these other ex-students. There must be about two hundred of us, from all over the state, all of us piling on a plane to our island holiday. This schoolies week, this is our reward. I’m surrounded by smiling faces, the excitement is palpable and I know I’m going to have fun this week.

The music changes. Still full of bass and beat, but much slower, more mellow. I stop jumping, and just flow. I’m sweating, and my legs are sore...

We lounge in the sun, all of us spread out on the deck of the yacht. We make small talk, but our hearts aren’t really in it. We just melt into the floor, soothed by the heat of the sun and the roll of the waves. I think my sunscreen’s worn off by now, but I can’t get up. True relaxation sucks me down until I can’t move, until I just don’t want to anymore. I think I’m burning, but that’s okay. It feels good right now.

I stagger out of the room, panting and hot. The music is pumping and I’m bopping, but I can’t dance anymore. Not right now. There, over by the door, a bubbler. I sway my way over to it, revelling in the splash of cool water in my face...

The spray whips at my face as I skim across the waves, salty and cold in the slipstream. The tube I’m on jolts and bucks as the motorboat tows me around into its wake. It powers ahead, and I fly over the water, only to be smacked into the surface before bouncing up again. We go into a turn, sharper and sharper, faster and faster until- I’m tumbling ,flipping side over side as the tube is whipped around. Now underwater, now gasping for air as my hands refuse to relinquish their hold on the mesh straps. I stop flipping, we’re going straight now. Only I’m underwater being hit repeatedly by the tube as it skims the choppy sea. My lungs scream at me, so I force my hands open and stop, floating gently on the waves as the boat comes round to pick me up for another run. I can’t get the taste of salt out of my mouth.

The music draws me back. It’s late, I’m tired and sore, but it’s as if my body is not my own. I have been completely taken by the music. I hardly even see the people around me anymore, just masses of shape and warmth, all moving together. The strobe flickers in and out of life, and then it’s gone and the lasers strafe the room, green lines, and swirls of red...

Lines of green, swirls of red, colours spread out around me in a massive tableau, and I can’t get enough of it. I look down through the cerulean water at the reef below, the fingers of coral reaching up to the sky, the massive colourful blooms that blanket the sea floor. And the fish, the multitudes of fish, darting in and out of all the tiny nooks and crannies, some no bigger than my little finger, others more than half my size. I take a deep breath, my ears popping as I dive down. A fish swims past me, intent on some task of its own, and all I can do is gaze in wonderment at the sheer abundance of life swarming all around me. Here, tiny crustaceans scampering across a brain coral. There, an eel slithers back into its sheltered nook. My lungs tell me it’s time to surface, so up I go. But only long enough for another deep breath.

It’s getting too hot now, the smoke machine irritates my eyes and throat, the pounding of the music in my brain no longer pleasant. I veer dizzily around the room, trying to get my bearings. A hand grabs mine, towing me through the squirming bodies. All I can see, all I can concentrate on is this hand, slender and cool, leading me away from the muzzy heat into the cool clear air. Tanned skin and brown hair is all I can see in this light, the residue from the dancefloor, but I know exactly who my saviour is. After all, we’d been together on the boats for the better part of a week...

She sits next to me at the railing, our legs hanging over the edge as the yacht slides through the waves. It’s evening, and cloudy, and a cold wind rakes the deck. The occasional wave splashes across the deck as we tilt crazily from side to side, tacking in the wind. We’re chatting about something, anything, and she’s shivering. I throw my arm around her, as if that would help. She doesn’t seem to mind.

We’re walking along the beach, and somehow her hand hasn’t left mine, our fingers interlocking snugly. The music fades away, yielding to the cool breeze of the night and the soft sighing of the waves caressing the sand. Our sea legs trick us, and send us swaying into each other, colliding softly one way, and then the next. We don’t talk, suddenly it’s as if we’ve known each other for years and there’s nothing left to say, there’s only being together. She sits down in the sand, pulling me after her and wrapping my arms around her. She leans back into me, and I can smell her hair. We’re still swaying, and I feel the heat of her in my arms, her legs pressed into mine, our cheeks resting together. I could sit like this forever.

A shout, her friends are calling her. I will her to stay, to ignore them, I hug her tightly to me. I can feel her smiling at me. I turn to look at her, only to be trapped in her gaze. The starlight glints on the water, and on her eyes as she gazes at me, a soft smile curving her lips. Her forehead touched mine, then her nose, and our lips meet. Tentative at first, small, fluttering kisses. Then bolder, I taste the salt of the sea on her lips, and sweetness on her tongue. I’m drawn deeper, deeper into this wondrous sensation, revelling in this warmth, this intimacy.

Then she’s gone. Gone into the night, gone back to her friends. Gone to bed, as I should have done hours ago. Suddenly I feel cold, my entire body aching to feel her heat again, to hold it once more, and fill that void I tried to convince myself I didn’t have. I trudge back to my unit, brushing my teeth to the snores of my roommates before flopping into bed. Her taste lingers in my mouth, making my thoughts race and my heart ache, accenting my dreams. 

That was the last night of my week in paradise. We all fly away early the next morning, all gone our separate ways back home, wherever home is. I don’t see her again, not properly. Not enough for me, tainted by the smiles and presence of the others. I smile like the rest and play along, the void inside me warmed by that spark, the memory of something special shared on the beaches of the Whitsundays.

Ten years later, and an email from someone I don’t know. Spam, likely. But curiosity gets the better of me, so I open it anyway. It greets me like I’m a friend, like it’s doing me a favour. It is. Because it’s telling me about the reunion, of the schoolies now gray and drifting in my distant memory. Two hundred muddled names, blurred faces I’ve forgotten.

And the one I never could.

2011 Retrospective - Tenderness (Spaghetti II)

Everything’s better with butter. The onions sizzle, slowly turning translucent, then golden brown. The aroma of sautéed onion and garlic fills the air, wafting up from the old copper-bottomed pot. I love that smell, and the ones that follow. Rosemary, oregano, thyme; all go into the pot and add their flavours to the air. My wife and I have been going through a rough patch, these past few months. That’s why I’m doing this, I thought I would surprise her tonight on our 13^th anniversary. She got cut up over the smallest thing, poor woman. I know this had been hard for her, soft and tender as she is. But everything is okay now, I’ve fixed everything. I smile through the delicious steam and attend to dinner.

I put the spaghetti on the boil and empty the tins of tomato into the pot. The cut edges of the can threaten me, but I manage to avoid bodily harm. There is danger here, in this kitchen of mine. With so much heat and so many sharp implements, it’s a wonder I’ve survived this long. The white scars on my hands spin the tale of many near misses. But I am long accustomed to the menace of this place. The kitchen is my domain, and after long experience the knives have become trusted companions.

My hands fly over the chopping board, neatly slicing zucchini, carrot and silverbeet, flicking them into the simmering red sauce one after the other. This was the first thing I cooked for her, when I coaxed her to my house all those years ago. As soon as I saw her, her smooth long legs, delicate arms and the graceful curve of her back; I knew I had to make her mine. Cooking was my weapon then, as it is now. I take a leg from the fridge and lay it on the bench before me. Surely this is the finest piece of meat I have ever seen. The skin parts from it with ridiculous ease and before I know it bite sized chunks simmer contentedly in the sauce.

I drain the spaghetti in the sink, setting it on the table next to the finished sauce and the salad bowl. A plate from the cupboard, a fork from the drawer, a single place at the table. I settle down with a sigh, spearing a mouthful on my fork. I breathe in the smell of it, then savour  the flesh melting on my tongue. I think this might just be the best thing I’ve ever tasted. We’ve been through quite a bit together, her and I. We’ve carried each other through sickness, floods and grief. Even when we were fighting, when the rage hot so hot I felt like I would explode and lash out with all my fury, not a day went by that I didn’t love her more. My lovely, tender wife. I put the leftovers in the fridge next to her other leg, her torso and her head, all neatly wrapped and labelled. 

I love my wife. She’s delicious.

2011 Retrospective - Spaghetti

Everything’s better with butter. The onions sizzle, gently turning translucent, then golden brown. The aroma of sautéed onions and garlic fills the air, wafting up from the old copper-bottomed pot. I love that smell, and the ones that follow. Rosemary, oregano, thyme; I throw them all into the pot and smell them flavouring the air. I look over at the table at my wife, radiant in her sapphire gown. It’s our anniversary, our 42^nd, and I’m cooking her favourite dish. She’s smiling, her beautiful blue eyes crinkling at the corners. I know those eyes well, and not just her eyes. I know every nuance of her face, the curve of her lips, her high cheekbones, the slightest hint of a widow’s peak atop her smooth forehead. I smile back through the delicious steam and attend to dinner.

I put the spaghetti on to boil and empty the tins of tomato into the pot. The cut edges of the can threaten me but I avoid bodily harm, being long accustomed to their menace, and that of the knives. The white scars on my fingers can attest to that. There is danger here, in this kitchen. With so much heat and so many sharp implements, it seems miraculous that I’ve survived this long. But the kitchen is my domain and I wouldn’t leave it. She understands that, and lets me have my way. To tell you the truth, I think she was relieved, for it let her get on with other, less mundane things.

My hands fly over the chopping board, neatly slicing zucchini, carrot and silverbeet, flicking them into the simmering red sauce one after the other. This was the first thing I cooked for her, all those years ago. This was the dish I wooed her with when I first invited her to dinner. We were both in college then.  Both so busy, with our hours of study and our part time jobs. Yet despite all that, despite all of the demands on our time, we always had managed to find an hour just to be together. Sometimes I cooked for her, sometimes we were both so tired that we just had cheap takeout. But no matter what our plans, we were always together.

I drain the spaghetti in the sink, setting it on the table next to the finished sauce and the salad bowl. A  plate from the cupboard, a fork from the drawer, and a single place at the table. Just one. I settle down with a sigh, looking across at her. We’ve been through a lot together. We raised our children, set them loose on the world and hoped for the best. We carried each other through floods, and sickness, and grief. No matter how hard it was, our love kept us together. Not a day goes by that I don’t love her more and more. I reach out and gently touch her face, still smiling in the mahogany picture frame. Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her.

2010 Retrospective - Replacement

It all began with a quirked eyebrow…

It belongs to the face of my long-time roommate Leah, who is looking pointedly at the just finished tub of peppermint ice-cream that’s in my hands. Her ice-cream. She is leaning on the kitchen doorframe, her arms folded across her chest. I hastily put the empty tub in the bin and wash up my spoon, my cheeks flaming the entire time. I turn around and her gaze shifts to me. “I was going to replace it,” I say. “tomorrow.” There is a brief silence.

“Okay.” She turns and leaves the room, her long brown hair flowing smoothly down her back. That’s it? I feel guilty. I had needed something cold to alleviate the unrelenting summer heat, and her ice-cream had fit the bill. But that’s the problem, it had been hers. Ah well, I’ll make it up to her tomorrow.

The alarm rings, 6:40 am. I press the snooze button and doze back off. Five minutes later

It rings again, 6:45. I keep this up, dozing for give minutes before the alarm rings, till sometime around 7:15. This is kind of a daily ritual for me. It’s not that I don’t like to get up early. I love it. It’s just so hard. Eventually I manage to flip myself out of bed and into some clothes, my head muzzy. I usually have about an hour before I have to walk to work, so I quickly duck down to the shop to get some supplies. First and foremost, a sandwich for my lunch and secondly, two tubs of peppermint ice-cream. That should put me in the clear. The apartment is quiet as I let myself back in, Leah isn’t up yet. I slip the food into the fridge. I hope it’ll be cold enough for both tubs, my fridge is old. I make and eat my breakfast in the remaining time before I have to go to work. Luckily for me, the office where I work is only six blocks away, so I can simply walk to and from work. It also means that I get to come home during my lunch break. Have my lunch and just chill, relieve the boredom of four hours of form-processing and other menial peon tasks. Unfortunately for me, however, today is Thursday. This means that instead of doing menial peon tasks, I get to do a whole heap of mindless number-punching. Crap.

I get a call from Leah just as I’m finishing up for lunch. “Hey Andrew! It’s me, Leah. How’s work?”

“It’s just great,” I reply sarcastically. “I’m bored as hell.”

“Well that’s just what you get for working in an office. You should work somewhere more flexible, like me. Anyway, I was just calling to remind you that I’m going to visit Tiffany tonight, so I won’t be here when you came back. And that sandwich you had in the fridge? Yeah… I ate that. Hope you don’t mind. Bye!”

“No no, that’s fine…” I trail of as she hangs up. Goddamn it. As I walk home I try to remember what we have in the fridge that I can eat. Nothing’s coming to me. Damn.

True to her word, Leah has left by the time I get back, already having left to visit Tiffany. Tiffany is one of Leah’s best friends, and had helped her get through her parents’ deaths. I go inside and look in the fridge, trying to ascertain whether any substance inside is even remotely edible. What the? A brown paper bag that wasn’t there this morning is sitting exactly in place of my stolen sandwich. Curious, I open the bag. Oh my. There’s a sandwich in here. But not just any sandwich, this one is magnificent! I sit there for a minute, just admiring this paragon of sandwich-ness. That’s when I notice the note nestled in between the sandwich and the bag. It’s slightly moist as I pull it out and unfold it.

Andrew-

Hee hee! Replaced your sammich! I think I do a better job than that deli you always get your lunch from. Now we’re even for that ice-cream stunt of yours.

                                                                        -Leah

Why that little, awesome… Gah. I just can’t stay irritated with the creator of such a culinary delight. The bread’s even toasted, though I don’t know how she managed it with my gimpy toaster. I take a bite, it’s bliss.

This afternoon is just as boring as this morning was. 2…8…34…7…1…95…6… My mind wanders as I mechanically punch in the numbers. I just can’t stop thinking about what Leah did. Replace my sandwich will she? We’ll just see about that! This isn’t over, not at all.

Trawling again through the fridge at home I find the perfect thing for my reactionary replacement. A small chocolate-chip muffin left over from a gift basket from her colleagues at work. This is exactly what I need, tastes pretty good too. Washing the crumbs off my hand I boot up the computer and do an internet search: Recipes for double-chocolate mudcake.

I am awakened the next morning by delighted squeals from the kitchen. As I walk in I am nearly bowled over by a delighted Leah, who has obviously just seen the handcrafted, chocolate-covered monstrosity that I baked for her last night. No easy feat, I hasten to add, her oven is terrible. Seems like a bit of a trend with our kitchen appliances. Leah throws her arms around me. “Thank you Andrew, the cake is wonderful!” I sit down to eat my breakfast. For some reason she keeps sneaking glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking. Huh. She hugs me again as I walk out the door. I carry a warm glow in my heart, and not just for the fact that I like making her happy. I won.

My smugness is shattered when I come back home. There, sitting on the bench, is a shiny new toaster. My old one is nowhere to be seen. Oh it’s on now! She has just formally announced that this will be a competition, a competition that I don’t intend to lose. I quickly look around the kitchen. Now what appliance of hers needs replacing? My eyes alight on the oven. Excellent.

As I’m shopping for a new oven for Leah, I notice that the jewelry store has just come out with a line of jeweled and engraved photo albums. Jeweled photo albums? Seriously, who would buy something like that? It seems pretty useless. Still, I imagine some people would. Not me though, not me. I walk into the appliance store to look for ovens. I think Leah will be pleasantly surprised.

She is. After much hugging and thanking, we continue our day. I come home to find my fridge replaced. This thing has blown way up. We seem to have run out of old appliances, so I buy her a set of comfortable hardwood furniture. She replies by getting rid of my old bed and switching it with a luxurious new water bed. That’s it. While she’s out for a few days I have a team of tradesmen come in and construct a full walk-in wardrobe array, having them work around the clock to get all the automated runners, hangers and shelves complete in time. I’m really glad that we both own this apartment, because otherwise this would have been a major problem. Leah gets back, and after much more huggings, meets me blow for blow with an amazing hot tub installed in my absence. Where is she getting the money for this? Not that I don’t like this, it’s great, especially all the hugs.

I have an awesome plan. I take a chunk out of my savings and replace her old car with a brand-spanking-new Volkswagen Beetle. I think it’s cute. Evidently, Leah does too. This time I get a hug and a kiss. She ups the ante yet again, reciprocating with a giant home entertainment system. I thank her, but she demands a hug. I embrace her, what else am I to do? I don’t want to seem ungrateful. We stay up late watching movies together. I have a day off tomorrow, and she goes to work pretty much whatever time she likes, so it doesn’t really matter. The apartment seems almost new with all the additions we have been making. I like it.

It’s my turn now, but the apartment seems pretty well covered. I can’t really exchange anything else. What should I do? Suddenly, inspiration strikes. Leah keeps a small box of photos in the top shelves of her closet; photos of her family, cracked and faded after the years that she has had them. I know what I have to do; I only hope she doesn’t notice that they’re missing.

“Andrew!” She sounds mad. She must have noticed that the pictures are missing. Damn. It has been two days, so I was hoping that she wouldn’t notice for just a little longer. No such luck. She storms in; this is bad, she’s even angrier than I thought. “You took my photos didn’t you?” She gives me no chance to respond. “Damn it Andrew! This has been fun but it isn’t a goddamn game anymore! They’re the only photos I have left to remind me of my family and you stole them! Have you already thrown them away?”

“No, I…” She cuts me off again, tears have begun streaming down her cheeks.

“You… I… I just can’t deal with this anymore. I’m going out, I don’t know when I’ll see you again.” She walks out, still softly crying. I can hear her in the hallway, grabbing her coat and opening the door. She’s gone. ‘I don’t know when I’ll see you again?’ That sounds ominous.

It’s raining today, the second since Leah left. I am incredibly worried about her. I have called Tiffany, but she wouldn’t talk to me. I can only hope that this means that Leah is safe and sound with her. The office has also called, to tell me that I have to leave this afternoon for a six-day conference. I am all packed and ready, and I have finally finished Leah’s present. I leave it on the table and go to the airport. I hope Leah gets it, I hope she doesn’t do anything dangerous. My plane leaves; and I sit thinking about the present, whether it will be enough for her to forgive me or not. I have finally discovered the sort of person that would buy a jeweled photo album, me. A stupid fool hopelessly in love. The only reason it had taken me this long was that I had wanted to replace her photos. It had taken me hours of research to track her family to those remaining distant relatives that would still have the same pictures, and even more painstaking hours to compile all of them into the album. I had also wanted to give her something of myself, so I included pictures of the two of us: the one of her and me on a cruise boat in Alaska, climbing mountains in New Zealand, and even the one showing when I had mistaken wasabi for guacamole. The rain lashes my window as we lift off. I wonder if she will find my present, and what she will make of my letter…

Leah

Even though words could never encompass the depths of my feelings, I am sorry for the pain and grief that I have caused you. I just wanted to give you a meaningful present. I know that the photos are important, and believe me; it was never my intention to throw them away. They are in an envelope attached to the back cover. I hope that you can forgive me for what I have done. I never want you to be hurt again.

I love you.

                                                -Andrew

My god I’m tired. I have just got off the plane after the conference, of which the best thing I can say is that the food wasn’t abysmal. I call a taxi, and wait in the darkening dusk for it to arrive. I get in and tell the driver my destination, half dozing as he drives. I wake up as we pull into my street. Is that…A moving van outside my house? It was. What is going on here? I pay the driver and step into my driveway. The lights are on in the apartment, and I can hear voices inside. I walk to the door and open it up. Inside it is a different place. There are colourful children’s daubings hung up on all the walls, there are a myriad of coloured beanbags and most of all; an extremely surprised family of five. “What are you doing in here?” Asks what I assume is the man of the household.

“What? I live here.” This is confusing, I’m sure I have the right place, I have lived here for some time, and my key worked as well.”

“Ohhh, you must be Andrew. Yes, we’re renting the apartment from you and Leah. Um, she told me to give you this, when you arrived.” He hands me a slip of paper, it has an address written on it. There’s nothing I can do but investigate.

Night has truly fallen by the time I reach the address Leah has on the note. It seems to be… a well appointed house. I wonder whose it is. I walk to the door and knock. After a few moments the door opens to reveal Leah, just as beautiful as ever. She looks happy to see me, I hope. “Andrew!” She hugs me, and leads me inside. This is a good sign. I am vaguely surprised to see that this house has the same furnishings as our old one and… Wha? Sitting in the place of pride in the hallway is that jeweled photo album. “Leah, what, is all this.” She turns around to face me.

“All during these past few weeks I think you’ll agree that we have grown to be more than just friends” That’s true, we were kind of acting like a couple. “and for me your letter just confirms that. That is,” she looks at me coyly. “if you mean it.”

“Mean what? I… Oh.” I wrap my arms around her. She looks up at me. I lean down slightly, brushing my lips against hers. She smiles, then kisses me.

“I got us a house.” Leah says, turning around in my arms. “We’re renting the apartment to help pay it off.”

“Leah… I love you.”

“Andrew?”

“Yes?”

“I love you too.”

As I sit here; with a beautiful girl, who I’m deeply in love with, in my arms; in a beautiful new house filled with beautiful new things, not to mention Leah; I can’t help but think about how this competition turned out. Leah trumped me fair and square, she not only replaced our apartment with a great new house, she replaced that empty void in my life with… herself.

So I guess, losing isn’t so bad.