The night began with a series of handshakes, wine glasses and expensive cheese. She wore her eggplant-purple dress; the one with black lace around the neckline, clawing at her throat like tiny black scorpions. Her hair was done up in a bun and held together with the jade chopsticks we found in a little shop in Kensington. Her dark crimson lips moved elegantly with every word she spoke, occasionally breaking into a vast smile as she threw her head back in laughter. I watched her from afar, letting her revel in her success. Her pictures hanging on the wall; threatening me, flaunting her talent.


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Before I met Scarlett, I was lost. I didn't have a life; I had a routine. Most routines are written down in leather bound notebooks; appointments and business meetings scrawled in black ink, the words slanting slightly to the left. But not mine; my routine was by accident, it had no structure or purpose. I smoked two packs of Marlboro Reds a day and worked at a Kinko's photocopying other people's useless shit. I spent nights on my brown leather couch eating microwave burritos and watching game shows. Nothing ever changed. My life was going through the copy-machine; day, after day, after day. The only thing that provided me with a small escape were the two gigantic floor to ceiling windows that took up one whole wall of my bachelor apartment. From there, you could see downtown Toronto sparkling and winking at you from the depths of a never ending dark sea; the city was alive. I stared down at it day after day; everyone out there was living and I envied them. I envied the city; yet I never became part of it. I watched from afar, in my safe cocoon of an apartment.


Scarlett on the other hand, was not lost. She was a part of the creature, she was one of the sparkling lights that helped the city move, breath and live. Her life had no routine and no rules. She smoked herbal cigarettes that contained no tobacco and had Passion Flower, Catnip and something called Love & Light printed the ingredients label. She worked as a free lance photographer, painter, poet, author and was a part-time waitress at a vegan restaurant called The Smiling Daffodil. She spent her nights out having twilight-beach-parties and gracing many Queen St. nightclubs. Nothing was ever the same. You could never trap Scarlett in a cocoon; she was born a butterfly.


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Hanging around the refreshments table always seemed to be my thing at these events. People would often ask me what was in the cherry-coloured punch beside me, I would usually respond with an abrasive: How the fuck should I know? In moments of utter boredom, I often found myself making Havarti castles with green olive bushes round the front. Sometimes I would include a moat made out of whatever nauseating dip was available, garnished with red caviar crocodiles. Then I would demolish it all with a Swedish meatball launched from a plastic-spoon trebuchet. Occasionally, I would be snapped out of my medieval appetizer daydream to be asked if I was the skinny man in the picture with the yellow sofa. If I was in a good mood, it was me. If I was in a bad mood, it was my twin brother.


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The first time I met Scarlett, I was on the subway. I was having a chameleon day; trying to blend in, go unnoticed, like a cat-burglar with no mission. She fell in my lap when the subway car stopped suddenly in between stations. It had taken me a moment to realize what happened before she had jumped up, flooding me with apologies. I remember hearing her voice for the first time, it sounded like caramel-coated needles; so apologetic, yet it seemed only by habit. I offered her my seat, explaining that as a man, I had better balance. She responded by asking me if I had ever worn high-heels with fishnets riding up my ass and the conversation went from there. We ended up getting off at the same station and by that point I could officially declare that my chameleon day had turned out to be a failure. She was unusual to say the least. Without me even asking, she told me she lived on the thirteenth floor of her building, but her landlord liked to call it the fourteenth. She told me she had a pet turtle who would smile if you looked close enough. She told me she spoke five different languages, three of which she made up.
And then she took my picture.


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Red wine sloshed in her glass as she clumsily pulled a statuesque man by his arm towards one of her photographs. Her stilettos clicking across the hardwood floors venomously. One of the straps of her dress was sliding of her shoulder. I squirmed in my seat; the feeling of corduroy slacks against leather upholstery made me cringe. Trying to wiggle my toes in the tight leather shoes she had made me wear, I got up and stepped out the back-door beside me. It led into a narrow alley way, I found an empty crate and sat down. I breathed in the smell of mold and old rain water. Splashing my feet in the shallow puddle below me I found myself getting lost in the patterns of yellow light rippling across the muddy water. I let myself get lost in thoughts of her all over Mr. Tall Guy inside, laughing like a hyena at jokes that could have created by my nephew. At one time, I had been her muse, her hearts desire and inspiration. I used to be perfect the way I was, and she was the only person that could make me believe that.


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I don't even remember how it happened, but so soon after I had met her, Scarlett had become my reason to leave my routine behind. She made me feel alive; I'd heard so many people say it before but I had thought there was just a limit to living and I'd reached it. Anything else that I imagined had always seemed unattainable, but Scarlett was my ticket into a whole new world. I became her muse, she called me this dark and tormented wonder, made everything that I hated about myself seem exciting and mysterious. She took me on adventures. We rode scooters down Yonge St., we got in taxis and asked the drivers to take us to their favourite restaurant, we made love on park benches after it was dark out.


She took me to her photography shows and pulled me around the room by my arm, running in her heels, making scuffing noises on the floor and occasionally tripping. There was always a whole wall devoted to me. Black and white, my face half illuminated, half hidden in shadow, on the bus, in my bed, making scrambled eggs... she captured me in every moment possible. She said the way I moved was like wind-chimes; so solitary and quiet, until the a breeze comes along and makes a beautiful sound. Half of the things she said to me made no sense at all, but I drank it all up. It didn't take long for me to fall head over heels for her.


During the slow hours at work, Scarlett would come in and bring me a hot tea, every day it would be different, and it would do something different for my aura. She became the thing to look forward to during the day. I looked forward to her sandy brown hair that fell down to her shoulders, to her sparkling amber eyes that were framed by eyelashes that touched the tips of her eyebrows. I looked forward to her laugh that sounded like sparkling wine and her touch that felt like warm apple cider. She never stopped moving, she was a vibrant ball of creative energy and I always had her at my side.


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Sitting in the alley way, I took out a cigarette and lit it with a matchbook from The Smiling Daffodil, it's little logo staring up at me with those tedious eyes and the crooked smile. Suddenly, I heard a loud click and a rush of wind and blaring light on my face. I looked up and saw Scarlett hovering in the doorway, wobbling in her heels.

“What are you smoking?” Her voice was full of pretension.

I let my cigarette drop to the floor, it hissed as it met the cold puddle engulfing my leather shoes. “Just one of your hippie smokes, don't worry about me, go back to your show,” Submissive, again.

“What the hell are you talking about?” she slurred, “Just get the hell back in here and support my show! God, all you do is mope around,” She looked me up and down and stumbled as she turned around to close the door behind her.


It was clear that my dark and tormented qualities didn't cause her to burn up in flames of passion anymore. It seemed somewhere along the line, she had grown bored of me. I used to be a mystery to her; maybe my mistake was letting her solve me. I knew it had to happen eventually; I grew bored of myself decades ago.


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One day, after a long day at work, I suggested we stay in for just one evening and just think. To my surprise she agreed. We sat on her yellow sofa, she was curled up in a ball and she had her head resting on my chest, listening to my heart beat.

“What are you thinking about?” she said to the floor.

“Why?” I ran my fingers through her hair, feeling each strand against my skin.

“I want to know why your heart sounds the way it does.” She looked up at me from where she lay, her eyes analyzing my face.

“Why? What does it sound like?” I wondered if I had inherited some crippling heart condition that my neglectful family members had forgot to tell me about.

“What are you thinking about?” she insisted, adjusting her ear against my chest, intent on deciphering my heartbeat.

I stared up at the photographs pinned up on the wall, the empty paint tubes lying on the wooden coffee table and the empty yogurt container full of paint-stained water. The high-heeled boots in the hallway slumped lazily against the wall, the dirty tea stained mugs and the sugar bowl full of used tea bags. I stared at the red silk curtains hiding a window that like mine, looked out into the city. Scarlett looked up at me again, expectant.

“I'm thinking of some photo-copy work I messed up on earlier today,” I admitted, “I had to give this stuck up pant-suit wearing executive her order for free,” I sighed. She looked at me closely for a moment before putting her ear back in it's perfect position near my heart and stayed there, listening and making small humming sounds.

“That's what it is,” she said finally, “Your heart sounds like a photo-copier,”


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Sitting back in the stuffy familiar art exhibition hallway I watched Scarlett's world flash in front of me. All the excitement turned into a blur of energy and all I wanted to do was slow down. I got myself up and walked slowly over to Scarlett. Scarlett with her smile that pulls you in, Scarlett with her strange words and hypnotizing touches, Scarlett with her talk of love and escape. Putting my hand around her waist, she turned to me and looked me in the eyes. I stared back searching for one reason for me to stay, something that said you still fascinate me, you still inspire me to create, you still are the love of my life. But all I saw was a sense of urgency to get back to her art show and not deal with the annoyance that I was. Maybe Scarlett had changed, maybe I had changed; maybe neither of us had changed at all. Either way, I knew I was thinking too much; and I wasn't going to make tonight another photocopy.

The evening began with a round of handshakes, wine glasses and expensive cheese; but the evening ended with one kiss, a thank you and a ride home in a taxi, alone.