Every embrace, at its base, is a guess about the future. All Good Things (Vertical City Performance, Toronto) In the darkness, in a comer, is a man seated at a tiny wooden table. A standup tamp curls in over it, catching him in a tight, warm pool of light. As I enter the darkened room he is writing in a little black book. He speaks each word aloud as he writes it. As the door closes softly behind me, he looks up, as if interrupted, but not surprised to see me. He looks at me for a moment, as if from a great distance, and says very softly, so that I can barely hear him, 'Tiny... figures.'He writes, apparently these words, as he speaks. He looks closely at what he has written and then closes his book. He looks at me, smiles, and gestures to the empty chair directly across the table. I make my way through the darkness to the chair and sit on it, facing him. I'm instantly aware of the scent of mint. Candy? Mouthwash? He is teasing what seems like the last o f a lozenge (eventually, I will realize that he is actually chewing on the inside of his cheek). I am trying to guess what flavour the lozenge is, when, after another moment, he leans forwards, reaches across the table with both hands and gently opens them before me. An invitation. I 've been warned that this was going to happen, but when it does I am still taken aback somewhat, still hesitant. He waits calmly, patiently, smiling. Slowly I put my hands into his, and he closes his fingers around mine. His hands are warm and slightly moist with perspiration. He holds me gently but firmly, as his thumbs play across the backs of my hands for a few seconds and then go still. I am thinking about the fact that I am holding hands with a stranger, and how rarely I hold hands with anyone, when he leans forwards and speaks to me.
