Too late, so late, beyond late. Squeezed into the back of a day, the last hour of your day shift. Time for the night shift, the last sigh. Sometimes you wake up thinking, why bother? What, exactly, is the point of it all? You look back. Was there a specific moment where you lost interest? Or were you always pulled along, a bit squashed, like something caught on the underside of your shoe? It’s no good you know. You can’t carry on like this. Oh I know, I know, it’s not exactly as if you lie around waiting for things to happen. It’s not as if you don’t do things which indicate a desire for movement. So, what is the problem? There is a problem, isn’t there? Or are you just whining? Maybe you’re just whining. Now that’s a sad waste of type. Of my time. Of your time. You’re staring into space. Who do you see? Gerd, with his tool belt and his paunch, flinging you up in his arms like a child. Gerd, who had been in the Nazi youth. Lyle, who was half Cree, who didn’t want you to take your bra off when he made love to you. Lyle, who wasn’t very good at fucking. Kim, Lyle’s girlfriend, who drank jasmine tea and was kind to you, even when she found out you’d been with him. Tom, his fingers always inside something hard and electronic. Shirley, his wife, who didn’t like you much. Zak, who had plans to plant a thousand trees across Toronto. Who wrote you poems, not very good. You broke hearts and relationships, and almost a marriage. Perhaps it did start there. You remember the joy, don’t you, of the time before. You were, what? Twenty something? You lay on the grass, outside the house on Hurndale. You could not contain yourself. Being inside the house was like wearing a dress one size too small. You didn’t want to miss anyone who might come inside the house, anyone who might leave. You’d gather them in, spin a shallow web, walk your sticky feet across their chests.