Fact*: it takes 21 days to build a habit. i wonder if dealers put that on vials of crack and heroin.
Problem: i can find now data on how long it takes to break a habit, especially ones built over a much longer period of time than 21 days.
*Use of the word "fact" in this sense is not totally, 100% factual...in this case "fact" refers to "what the experts say"...as to who these experts are and what kind of credentials they possess, i don't really know. But Tony Robbins says it takes 21 days to build a habit, and so did the lady on Oprah.
A sexy tale of intrigue for those who travel the underground "path" of TorontoThe snow moves sideways down the corridor of tall buildings, careening into windows like birds, then ceasing to be. A few people remain on the sidewalks, but not enough to walk on the snow, tramp it down and turn it into mush. The snow is accumulating. People disappear like gophers into the underground path that connects downtown to union station. The streets are dotted with escapes, staircases tunneling down the cement into the warmth of the concourse. I make it as far as King street and then I too tuck into a building and burrow down towards the heat and light. I walk underneath the banks of the financial district, passing retailers happy of the human traffic. The wet coats and overheated passageway gives off the smell of wet dogs and body odour. I undo my coat and stuff my scarf and mitts into my bag. I step out of the flow to pick up a coffee and watch for a while. With all the snow people are rushing for their trains, trying to get out of the city early, before service is interrupted. I’m in no rush. I will get home eventually but I’m not running through these halls to catch and awkwardly scheduled 3:52pm train to Burlington. I take my coat off and sit on a café stool.
The subterranean pedestrians are happy to be leaving work early, excited by the weather, like kids hoping for a snow day. A day off. A day to ‘work from home’. I think it would be better to be snowed in the city and stay in a hotel, tuck into bed and eat room service, have a shower and a long bath, watch TV all night long and drink exotic things from the mini-bar. Things you wouldn’t drink at home like a Manhatten or a Rusty Nail—both have their edges rounded out by something sweet.
I take a sip from my coffee and some bubbles up out of the cutaway meant for sipping, and slops down the front of my dress. Dark chocolate brown turtleneck, so once the liquid dries there will be no stain. The sweater dress is clingy and I continue to look down staring at the shape of my breasts. Not very big so they don’t head down. But getting older they seem to be moving apart—even when I’m standing they head in the opposite direction of each other, like whispering secrets to my armpits. They used to be closer. I slide off my stool and swim cross stream like a salmon to stare in the window of the jewellery store. Diamond solitaires occupy the place of honour in the window.
“shiny” I say.
“is it just a rule then?” the man next to me asks.
“excuse me?”
“is it just a rule that all women like shiny things” he says. His hair is all grey but his face is unlined and well shaven. His eyes are dark and deep. He wears a navy blue overcoat.
“I can’t speak for all women” I say “but there is certainly something of a magpie in me”. He smiles.
“those would look lovely on you” he says.
“yes, they would” I agree and he lets out a low chuckle.
“what shiny thing in the window are you admiring?” I ask.
“it’s not exactly in the window” he says. His cheeks turn pink. I smile. I roll my wedding band around my finger with my thumb. His hand is adorned by a fat gold ring.
“would you like to get a drink before getting on the train” I ask, turning fully on him, presenting myself in a way. His dark eyes turn and rest on me, taking me in from top to bottom, including my ring finger.
“I would” he says. We walk through the concourse together, not speaking.
I walk as if we’re not even going to the same place together but we keep step, we keep time. There is an invisible wire holding us together. This wire transmits heat.
At the foot of the escalator up to the hotel, to the bar, he steps in close behind me and burns the back of my dress.
At the bar I order the bitter sweet of scotch and drambuie, a rusty nail, the amber drink is thick and coats my tongue and lips. Each drink tastes like another one. He drinks red wine. I wonder if all older men drink red wine when on dates with younger strumpets they pick up in the underground concourse.
“so you’re married?” he asks. I stare down at the band.
“yep. You too” I say, tipping my drink at him.
“I too” he says nodding. “so what’s your excuse?” he asks.
“for what?” I ask. He gestures around at the bar, at our drinks, at himself.
“you started it” I say, crunching a small half ice cube from the bottom of my glass. I catch the waiter’s eye and he’s going to bring me another.
“I started it?” he says “how old are you?” his smile widening to show perfect teeth, like Chiclets gum.
“I am much younger than you” I say.
“and yet, you are here” he says. The waiter sets down another glass of something red and my beautiful rusty nail. I stick my finger in it to stir, mixing the sweet and sticky drambuie with the scotch, and suck my finger clean.
“true” I say.
“so…what’s your excuse?” he asks again.
“it’s snowing”. I say. It feels like a day off. Like time away from everything.
“it’s a holiday” he says, raising his eyebrows to me.
“exactly. And you? What about you?” I ask.
“I didn’t want to say no to you” he says. with my cheeks burning I look him full in the face and hold him there. There is some power here and I feel it, the surge from the wire connecting us, from him to me. It makes me want things. I would like to stick my fingers in his mouth and feel his heat and breathe on my skin. Something to carry away with me, a lick, a scent, a taste.
He reaches out across the table and touches the top of my left wrist, dragging his hand down to my fingertips. We both look at his watch.
I stand up and he helps me on with my coat. His hands on my shoulders slide down my arms, just grazing my waist. He leaves cash on the table.
“thank you” I say.
‘next snowstorm, you buy” he says, as we take the escalator back down.
At the train station we part company. We may be on the same train, but I don’t check. I snap my ticket through and walk for the end of the platform. On the train ride home, I rest my head against the window, snow smashing and disappearing against the glass and heat of the train, the heat of me heating the train. Moving out from the city centre I expect the heat to fade, but it doesn’t. I think of what an hour in a hotel room with that man would be like. I think of his mouth and eyes. The weight of his hands on my shoulder, the heat of his body on my back.
The conductor calls out my station and I lift my head from the window. I have left a little mark on the glass. Off the train, we pile through the underground passage that is filled with wind and snow and all the cold, and pop up at the kiss and ride. Outside I look for the familiar blue Honda, flat nosed and square, I scurry through the whirling snow and pop into the passenger seat.
“hi” he says, leaning over to give me a peck.
“hi” I say back, turning my head so he misses my mouth.
“was the station insane?” he asks.
“no, mostly everyone left early. The regular train was pretty empty”
“that’s nice” he says. “how was your day?”
“same as always” I say looking out the window, “except for the snow.”
