Venom in Black and Yellow

They opened the curtains to reveal a gargantuan spider on stage. Each of its eight legs were chained and it tried to rear up, but its forelegs couldn't clear the ground and it crashed back down in a fall that shook the theatre. My pepsi cup was drained and the feature presentation was over, so I slipped out through the lobby and hailed a cab.

"Good show?" asked the driver.

"Greenlight district," I said, "Just north of Howe and Dylan. The show was alright. Rain much tonight?"

"Just eased off," he said. He was a black-skinned guy and was curled up over the wheel, too tall for the standard sedan cab. "Its a quiet night out, yeah? Cold, I think this sudden wind has put a hold on everyone's plans."

He spoke for a while, and my attention turned to the streets - couples clutched together by their forearms, wearing thick felt coats and scarves. Window displays were darkened and lined with thick metal bars. An orange-flashing tow truck was parked by a dinted hatchback. A woman walked by in a black dress with two bold yellow stripes under the bust.

"Stop for a second," I said.

"Huh?"

"Just stop, alright?"

The car pulled up against the curb and I got out, leaving a ten dollar note on the back seat. I hurried back along the sidewalk to where the woman in the black dress was walking in high heels towards the theatre strip.

"Jessica!" I called. "Hey, Jess!"

She turned around and I jogged towards her.

"Who's that... Kurt?"

"Yeah, it's me, Kurt - what are you doing here? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm staying at the Plaza. Just for a few nights."

"How's Toronto? Here, I'll walk with you."

"It's good," she said. "Not like it used to be. They pay me well up there, though."

"Glad to hear it. You're not missing much, same old freakshow down here."

We walked for a while, eyes low to avoid the passing headlights. The pavement was still damp from the rain and the wind was cold under my shirt.

"Here, you need a jacket? Cold night," I said.

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm meeting someone for dinner."

I grabbed her arm and stopped.

"Is it important?" I asked.

She turned around and we looked at each others' faces for the first time in a while.

"Is what important, Kurt?"

"Dinner. I haven't eaten." I gestured to the street. "I miss you, Jess."

"Don't," she said. "This is it. We're over, right?"

"What's a few nights?"

She turned, wrestled her arm from my grasp and kept walking. I followed a little behind her, and she stopped again.

"It wouldn't be right."

"It would be so right."

"I have plans."

"Cancel them."

Later that night, after we ate big meals at an organic steakhouse and spent hours drinking beers and cocktails, I undressed her in her hotel room. She shed her thin stockings and her black dress, a flimsy layer, and I sunk into her dark, warm places and clutched her thigh closely against my cheek. Her fingers crept through my hair and flattened themselves down my neck and the rain outside started up again.