Flirt: The Interviews by Lorna Jackson

Author:Lorna Jackson [Jackson, Lorna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Short Stories (Single Author), Fiction, Fantasy, Language Arts & Disciplines, Communication Studies, Short Stories
ISBN: 9781897231388
Publisher: Biblioasis
Published: 2008-04-11T04:00:00+00:00

I Flirt with JANET JONES-GRETZKY

—Your hands are bigger than Wayne’s.

—Oh my gosh, you noticed that? Don’t say I’m taller, just don’t. He hates that. Wayne has a great deal of pride and he’s extremely competitive. He doesn’t like to lose, even to me. I’m going to pour more water on the rocks. I like it very hot. Cute bracelet you’re wearing; my daughter makes those for her friends.

—What’s that smell?

—I’ve added several drops of eucalyptus special for saunas. We find it really soothes muscles after a workout and it clears Wayne’s sinuses. Sometimes, we add sandalwood, and the kids like a lemon milk we get from Australia. They say it smells like Easter, but we don’t see the connection.

—You’ve done remarkable designing in here. The cedar actually seems more Louis XV than Finnish.

—Oh my gosh, that’s what Jarri Kurri says when he visits! “Yawnet” – that’s what he calls me! – “Yawnet, what have you done to my country here? What’s about the arches and the swirls? What’s about the cherubs?” he always says, and I’m, “Jarri, please, relax, it’s my style!” He’s a lovely, lovely person.

—You like athletes.

—I love athletes. And dancers. People who take their bodies to the limit. But athletes especially. Oops. Sorry. No no. Your leg’s fine there, I’ll just scootch over a bit. You have very plump calves, very nice. You must work out. How old are you, if you don’t mind the question?

—You were engaged for three years to Vitas Gerulaitas, the Lithuanian Lion. Long wavy blonde hair before stars were allowed to, an enormous twinkle. Only six feet tall, but he appeared much longer. In the late seventies, I watched tennis in Vancouver. Because I lived only blocks away and adored his company, I lunched with my father at the Vancouver Lawn Tennis club once a week. My dad was a great player, adored Arthur Ashe and Rod Laver but didn’t go for the new style of athlete, those who earned millions but couldn’t behave on the court or off it. I was living with my first serious love, a guitar player from Wawa, Ontario. He, too, was Lithuanian and I teased him with Vitas. My boyfriend’s hair was bad brown, short and already thinning. His skin was not tanned and smooth, but pale and deeply pocked from neck to forehead. Though his eyes were blue, the glasses he wore were so thick you couldn’t tell. He had a habit of squeezing his crotch in conversation, didn’t matter who he was talking to. He wore country music shirts. My favourite was a gingham pearl button number he had worn the afternoon his father shot himself in the basement in Wawa.

—Vitas was a lovely, lovely man.

—And also a man with addictions, treated for cocaine indulgence, notorious for his back-to-back women. Dead too young from inhaling carbon monoxide a pool heater leached into the room where he slept. My boyfriend only went stupid on a glass of cheap scotch. He liked cigarettes but they thrashed

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