Lancelot
by Jane Watson

Standing on the corner waiting for the light to change, I stared anxiously across the street at The Second Cup. This was where she said she'd be, but would she? She was so good at changing her mind, especially about me.
The rain pelted down. I turned up my collar, hunched my shoulders, cursed myself for not having brought an umbrella. But when I'd hung up the phone, all I could think of was getting to her as fast as possible. What was wrong with me? And what wax it about her that transformed a rational forty-year-old into a quivering, love-sick adolescent? And would the light never change?
At the first break in the traffic I galloped across the intersection, splashing through puddles that soaked the bottoms of my jeans, and arrived at the door of the coffee-shop, hair plastered to my head, water streaming down my face. Inside, as my eyes adjusted to the subdued lighting, I peered at the tables, searching for her, prepared for the sickening realization that she'd stood me up once again. Then I saw her, curled up on a sofa at the very back of the shop, watching me with that familiar, teasing, mischievous , little grin and a great burst of jubilation spread through my whole body.
I wanted to wrap arms around her, to kiss her eyes, her lips, her hair, to inhale the sweet, innocent scent of her, to engulf her with passion, to declaim sonnets of love to her. "So, you're here," was what I said.
"Did you think I wouldn't be?" she said, tossing her back from her face in that characteristic way of hers.
"The thought occurred to me," I replied.
"Dear Tom," she replied, smiling up at me. "It's so good to see you again. Take off that wet jacket and get yourself some coffee, and then we can talk."
What about? I wondered as I paid for my bowl of latte. What new form of torture had she devised this time?
As I settled myself into the chair across from her, I noticed the pile of gear on the sofa beside her; a big backpack and several small bags as well as her jacket. Either she'd just arrived or was just on her way. Typical. Tanya was always in transit. A metaphor for life, she'd have said. "So where have you been all this time?" I asked.
"Oh, here and there," she replied. "Vancouver, Montreal, London. I was even in L.A. for a while, but I didn't like it." You might have dropped me a postcard, I thought, but I didn't say it.
"And how's the painting going?"
"So-so," she replied evasively, and I knew it hadn't been going well but she didn't want to admit it.
All the time I was drinking her in with my eyes; the hair blonder, the lithe, little body thinner, some new lines appearing at the corners of the blue, tilted eyes. She was beginning to look her age which was the same as mine. This only endeared her to me the more, for now I could pity her a little, my beautiful Tanya, because I knew how much she must hate the thought of aging.
I waited, wondering what she wanted, afraid to come right out and ask, for I knew this wasn't just a matter of old friends, sometime lovers, getting together again.
"Are you staying in Toronto or are you taking off again?" I said.
"I'll be here for a while and I have a favour to ask. Could I crash at your place for a bit until I get settled? See, I'm a little short of cash at the moment."
My heart leaped. Tanya with me, eating at my table, sleeping in my bed. I would be on the sofa, of course, making herself at home with me as if we were almost a couple. Paradise! I wanted to jump in the air, shout, turn cart-wheels.
"Sure," I said, keeping my voice calm. "Why not? Stay as long as you like."
"Bless you, Tommy," she said, laying her hand on mine. "I knew I could depend on you. Have you room for somebody else as well?"
"Somebody else?" My heart sank.
"You'll love him, Tom," she said, a little too rapidly, too eagerly. "He's the most amazing musician, just an awesome voice..."
"What's the name of this paragon?" I said, my voice shaking a little.
"Oh well, if you're going to take that attitude..." The sparkle left her eyes, her lips pouted.
"You haven't even met him and you're judging him already. This isn't going to work. We'll just have to find somewhere else, that's all."
"No, no," I said, craven in my longing for her. "That's okay. We'll give it a try."
"His name's Lancelot," she said. "And you're going to think he's great. Trust me."
"Lancelot! What is he, some artsy-fartsy Brit that you've brought back with you from London?"
She bent her head as she lifted her coffee mug, but I could see a tiny, impish grin lurking at the corners of her lips.
"Tanya, what are you up to? Are you having me on?"
"Who, me? How can you say such a thing? Don't you want to meet him? Get a look at the competition?"
"Sure, why not?" I rose from my chair. "Where is he?"
She shoved her jacket aside and picked up the smallest, scrawniest kitten I'd ever seen. As she set him down on the table, he opened his mouth in a gaping, pink yawn and then emitted an enormous, ear-splitting squawk, a sound completely at odds with his size.
"This is Lancelot," Tanya said. "Isn't that a great voice? Think you can hold your own against him?" She grinned. " I really had you going , didn't I?"
I sat down again, picked Lancelot up and put him on my shoulder, where he immediately curled up and went to sleep. "Why don't we have another coffee," I said. "Then I'll take you both home."