Relieved for the reprieve and cued by the flickering candle, I said, “A cave man staring at
fire could only explain the heat and light as magic. Time-shift him into your book, and he’d bow
to the God Bic by virtue of a billion miracles a day.”
“Can’t there be magic in fire even after its science is understood?” Her eyes glowed with a
beguiling mixture of mischief and delight.
“Maybe if I knew what it was.”
“You are magic,” she said, covering both of my hands with hers.
Ingeniously, I maintained an endearingly stupid expression, thereby leaving it up to Bonnie
to explain her comment.
Instead, she pushed back from the table and said, “It’s strange to meet two truly interesting
men in one week, when years went by without meeting anyone. I’ll be right back.”
“Boggling,” I muttered, signalling Allie for the bill, which she somehow had at the ready
and placed on our table only moments later.
My fuzzy scrutiny of our tab revealed that Bonnie had been drinking Virgin Caesars for
most of the night. Nevertheless, when she returned, Bonnie insisted on going Dutch treat while
doubling my tip before handing the leather presenter to Allisha. This exchange happened so
quickly that I could not protest Bonnie’s obvious gesture aimed at demonstrating that she was
more generous of spirit than some points in our conversation had otherwise indicated. I knew I
was “in” with her after this, but I didn’t appreciate just how much until we parted company
outside of the restaurant, and she kissed me gently. With our lips still touching she said, “Be sure
to call me tomorrow.”
“Steel trap,” I said, tapping my temple, which she found hilarious like only the smitten can.
The next evening, I worked a job in North Vancouver recording the recovery efforts of
firemen responding to a child’s fall from the Capilano River bluffs.
“In the summer,” the petite paramedic said to our reporter off the record, “high school kids
full of booze or smoke jump into the swirls because they look deep.” Gillian pointed to an
outcropping surrounded by dead drops across the gorge. “Maybe a child losing her footing on the
moss will play on their minds a few months from now,” she lamented, searching for something
redeeming in her day.
“Appreciate the background,” Natalie said.
“No sweat,” the paramedic replied, with a dismissive gesture.
Natalie signalled a thigh-high micro slash for Matt to stop his surreptitious recording, and in a
thickening silence they watched Gillian rejoin her own kind.
“I won’t use her,” Natalie explained when she was out of earshot. “I like to get the details and
the mood on tape when the air date is…”
“Shhhit,” Matt hissed as the crown of a helmet bobbed over the crest of the road from the
riverbed gully.
“New tape. Risk setting up wide and nothing else. This is a budget and bunny huggers’ piece,”
Natalie ordered succinctly.
The risk she had acknowledged was of Matt missing the moment when the rim of the wire
Stokes basket appeared because it offered endless “final journey” scripting possibilities. “Nothing
else,” directed him to avoid visual statements that raised an audience’s sorrow to fear, the catch
