The just cold enough Steamwhistle hits my lips. I thumb through a slightly wrinkled edition of MacLean's magazine. Odd that some pages seem to be stuck together. Seriously fellas? MacLean's?
Guess I'm a little early. The boiz should be here any minute, I think to myself.
Could have sworn I heard the door open not long ago but it must have been the neighbours across the hall.
When was the last time I saw the boiz anyway? Feels like forever. Thank god for the three way. It's nice to know what they’re all up to. Hell it's just nice to know they're there. Between uncertainty at work and the recent demise of the Senators, sometimes it seems like the boiz are the only constant. The boiz are Dale's safe place, ya might say.
They really should be here by now...
I lean forward and return the MacLean's to the rickety, couch-side table and spot an unopened envelope.
My curiosity piqued; I glance at the address on the front. 250 Cooper Street, it reads. Addressed to a Mr. Morley Dolax. Wait...Morley? Dolax? Odd.
At that moment, a picture frame hung on the adjacent wall catches my eye. It features a smiling couple. A 6 foot something blonde fellow and his plump yet pleasant girlfriend or wife. Quite a pair I think to myself, but why do the boiz have a picture of this couple on their wall?
I stand up, throw back the remaining Steamwhistle from the emerald bottle and walk towards Bert's room. I peer in. In the far corner is a baby's crib. The walls are painted in a soothing baby blue and a changing table rests where I could swear a couch once resided.
Something…Something isn’t right. I can feel my heart rate accelerate.
I frantically make my way to Derk's room expecting, nay hoping, to see the usual disheveled sanctuary Derk calls home. I push the door open, and gasp. A perfectly made queen size bed, decorated with throw pillows and floral pattern duvet.
What the hell is going on here? Where are the boiz? Where am I? I know this is the right apartment. It has to be…
On the desk rests an open lap top. Panicked, I log in to Facebook. I'm breathing heavily now. The once soothing sound of the saxophone coming from the apartment stereo now only increases my panic. I know what's happened but I'm not ready to accept it.
Cautiously, I begin to type a name in my friends list.
Paul Bertrand…No matches found
Alex Yeaman…No matches found
Derek McConnery…Did you mean Dave MacArthur? No I meant Derek McConnery, damn it!...No matches found
I type Colin Winters but I already know the answer. No matches found.
I desperately pull out my blackberry looking for comfort in the three way. Hands shaking, I scroll to the WhatsAp icon and click. Nothing. No conversation labeled “The Boiz”. But all that banter? The cards…The scrabble…All those nights out? Could they be…Is it possible?
The sound of the sax booming out of the radio is unbearable now.
A drop of sweat falls from my brow. They aren’t real. I’ve made it all up. Hal, Bert, CC, Derk...The LOLs, the beers, the blog! All of it!
Confused, I stand in the darkened hall way and look toward the exit. The knob turns slightly at first and then again, more hastily. The door creaks open…