My heart feels like an 8 x 11 sheet with one too many typos, snatched from the machine, crumpled into a hard, angry ball and tossed in the general direction of the waste paper basket, which it has narrowly missed and has instead landed with a faint thud on the broadloom beside your old sneakers.

Tonight was dancing to our favourite live band at the Orbit Room.

It was too many drinks, and all of my girlfriends wanting to be so close.

It was dancing so much to such great music, and not caring who was watching.

It was tall, sexy, bald Patrick – a stranger – dancing with the skinny girl with dreadlocks first, and then finding me when he realized she wasn’t interested.

It was me, feeling shitty about fifteen extra pounds.

It was mostly fantastic music,

And Enrique with his ear flaps and strong eyebrows. Shorter than the other boys. Not there for picking up…

Talking to me first. Dancing with me, and then closing the bar with the skinny girl. With the dreadlocks.

It was me, mohair coat from France on before the lights could come up, but not before that bongo player who took my number in the summer walked right past me to the bar.

It was me in a cab, alone, so glad to be going home to Arthur.

It was this last song, which is about as innocent and mindless, and even-frat-boys-will-love -this as a song can get, which despite my happy dancing brought tears to my eyes. Maybe someday, I can close this bar with someone who also finds these lyrics touching and significant. Maybe not. I most certainly know that my cleanse is very timely indeed. I’m starting to feel too much, when I should feel nothing at all:

I wanna love you and treat you right;

I wanna love you every day and every night:

We’ll be together with a roof right over our heads;

We’ll share the shelter of my single bed;

We’ll share the same room, yeah! – for Jah provide the bread.

Is this love – is this love – is this love –

Is this love that I’m feelin’?

Is this love – is this love – is this love –

Is this love that I’m feelin’?

I wanna know – wanna know – wanna know now!

I got to know – got to know – got to know now!

I – I’m willing and able,

So I throw my cards on your table!

I wanna love you – I wanna love and treat – love and treat you right;

I wanna love you every day and every night:

We’ll be together, yeah! – with a roof right over our heads;

We’ll share the shelter, yeah, oh now! – of my single bed;

We’ll share the same room, yeah! – for Jah provide the bread.

Is this love – is this love – is this love –

Is this love that I’m feelin’?

Is this love – is this love – is this love –

Is this love that I’m feelin’?

Wo-o-o-oah! Oh yes, I know; yes, I know – yes, I know now!

Yes, I know; yes, I know – yes, I know now!

I – I’m willing and able,

So I throw my cards on your table!

See: I wanna love ya, I wanna love and treat ya –

love and treat ya right.

I wanna love you every day and every night:

We’ll be together, with a roof right over our heads!

We’ll share the shelter of my single bed;

We’ll share the same room, yeah! Jah provide the bread.

We’ll share the shelter of my single bed

Goodnight Toronto.

We had a slow, stinky ride home on the King car, in the snow. Arthur always hangs close, sits on my foot, smacks his chops nervously and rolls his big brown eyes up at me each time we stop, as if to say “Are we there yet?”

He smells ripe. He never, ever has a bath before I pick him up, and his doggie aroma offends even my very tolerant nostrils. But he is warm, and solid beside me, and as I stroke his furry vest, he heaves a mighty sigh, and tears spring to my eyes.

I lay my head against the cold window and watch the snow, and the people on the street, rushing for cover. For home. Arthur and I are displaced. We used to have a family, and now every other month, we are together again, trying to remember each other, trying to feel homey, without feeling the pain of what we have lost. Ok, I can’t speak for him…

Perhaps it’s a lack of sleep, or the residual post-new year’s eve alcohol remaining in my system, but today I feel all alone in the world, and the world feels like a vast amount of space. Sometimes I think that Arthur is one of the single threads that keeps me grounded. We are bound by a love that doesn’t require words to express emotion, and a simple desire to share each other’s warmth and quiet romps through the woods. I crave his presence when he is not here, but then when he returns, I’m reminded of movie nights with take out, and a shared blanket, and him snoring happily at our feet. He is a pack animal, and in his world, a pack is more than two.

My landlords make it possible for me to have Arthur in my life still. On my modest income, I can’t afford a dog walker, but my landlady lives on the main floor of the house, and she is retired, so Arthur spends his days in her company. If there are evenings when I have to work, she and her husband keep him, and spoil him with their love. He is rarely alone when he is here. But I worry all the time that something will happen. That he will get hurt, or sick, and I won’t be able to manage the vet bill, and then he will be taken from me once and for all.

We make it three quarters of the way home, and an adorable little girl gets on with her mum. Arthur’s ears perk up, and he stands at attention. The girl is excited, and obviously doesn’t have much experience with dogs because she grins a big, toothy grin for what feels like forever, while staring directly in his yes. He cocks his head to one side. I feel him bristle, and I lightly tell him that he’s ok. Arthur’s patience is shot. He begins to sing in protest, and the laughter of the little girl and the other riders only spurn him on to greater operatic heights. I see the driver eyeing me from his mirror, and I try every trick in my Ceasar Milan repertoire. Stupidly, I have forgotten cookies, so all I can do is try to reason with him. Which as you can imagine, is futile. I whisper softly in his ear “Shhh….we’re almost home. Then I’m going to give you a big bowl of kibble, and make you a soft fluffy bed to lay down and sleep while we listen to music and remember what it is like to be together.”

He yawns mightily, squeaks a little, and then hunkers down to endure the rest of the wet, slushy ride home. The end of the voyage includes not one, but two pack-laden homeless people who want to make friends with him. I know they are harmless because he thumps his tail in the puddle of melted snow at our feet.

Tomorrow will start with a big walk, then a trip to get more cookies, and we’ll end with a bath (for him, not us). He’ll smell like oranges, and be silky to the touch, and I’ll feel like myself again because tomorrow isn’t today.

I know there is a myth where someone digs a hole under the cover of darkness to whisper all of their deepest secrets into.

Perhaps this is not so secret…

When I am with you, no matter who, or how many other people are in the room, all I can think about is how your lips might feel against mine.

I don’t need to own you. I don’t need it to mean that things must change, but if I can’t kiss you so very, very slowly… if I can’t taste you just once, I think I might crawl out of my skin.

And now, as I pack my baggage for dreamland, I will carry with me the idea of your lips, and the greater notion that sometime we may sleep peacefully beside each other, with nothing changing in the morning, except perhaps how quickly we can finish each others’ sentences.