Love At The Loft

Time literally whizzed past. We raced around the streets of Vancouver on his motorcycle, ate copious amounts of chocolate ice cream, and drank red wine into the wee hours of mornings.

One day in the summer, Pierre took me to Wreck Beach, where nudity is celebrated and clothing is suspect. Pierre stripped down naked and started playing with his boomerangs. He could throw up to three or four at once. I was having a pretty good time at the nudie-beach with my boomerang boyfriend when nature called.

I stepped into the outhouse, and the stench hit me from above like a rock. It stuck to my skin and sponge-filled my lungs with decades of urine. I took the smell on like an enemy because I had to pee. I felt it on my skin like a hot, wet sweater. The foul stench of pure, ripe pollution seeping through and through that old outhouse -trampled and soiled with dirty, wet feet.

In a dizzy rush, the tinkling was cut short, and I flew open that door like my pants were on fire. But I knew that old outhouse wouldn't let me go so easily. It cloaked my back in a sticky reminder of our remains.

Holding my breath, I made my way back to Pierre's blanket. But Pierre wasn't playing with his boomerangs anymore. I scanned the beach, finally spotting him at the margarita stand. He was giving a back massage to a beautiful naked French woman named Isabelle.

I tried not to let the fire in my cheeks grow into a full-blown jealous rage when Pierre eventually made his way back to me and explained that Isabelle was just very tense and he was just trying to help.