Sonja and I were watching a couple much older than us glide across Sawmill Lake in a red cedar canoe as we walked the Hammer on the goose shit lakeshore beneath a sky painted with the doom and the fireside sex of Canadian winter. The closeness of the couple went unnoticed to no one who was sharing our stroll.
Sonja elbowed me where my beer pools before it is aimed at my brain and said, "That's going to be us one day except I'm going to be hitting you with my paddle."
I nodded agreeably. Sonja comes from a long line of violent Swedish women; the kind of women you wish had mothered the Sedin twins. "As long as you keep letting me kneel in the back of the canoe and steer you can paddle me all you want baby."
She elbowed me again. It was going to be a good night to be Beer.
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