The Bloody Doors Off

A psychic once told me.

Let me back up.

I don’t believe all psychics are psychic. I think a lot are more intuitive-based and can ask leading questions and/or offer platitudes people want to hear.

But I met one. She was the real deal.

The moment I met her.

Without me saying a word.

“You have such interesting stories to tell. Why aren’t you telling them?”

No one knew that I wasn’t writing. Not even the girl I had a crush on, Alison, who took me to meet Christmas.

Yes. That was her name. She didn’t shorten it to Chris or Chrissy. She didn’t choose to go by her middle name.

She was. Christmas. And Christmas was fucking psychic.

She’d given me a book of poems by Longfellow. (She worked out of a basement of what used to be a used bookstore at Danforth Avenue and Victoria Park. (Fuck gentrification.)) Christmas said she wasn’t sure why she was supposed to give me the book. (For free, btw.) Just that I was supposed to have it.

But I knew why.

I gave it to Alison without hesitation.

Neither Christmas nor I knew Longfellow was her favourite poet.

Not that it got me out of the friend zone.

And I was there a long time.

But that’s another story.

For another time.

I’m telling my stories, Christmas. I wish I could tell you.

Something tells me, you already know.