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Isobel’s apartment, I threw myself down on the plum-coloured couch. She handed me a bowl of popcorn and a glass for the red wine on the coffee table. She had a cozy apartment on the top floor of a three-storey walk-up. Her one-bedroom suite used to be basic, but she had transformed it into a loveshack extraordinaire. Arabian fabrics draped on the slanted wall. A beaded curtain hung in the bedroom doorway. There was a mosquito net sensually cocooning her bed, like in Out of Africa . Candles floated in water in glass vases around the apartment. A philodendron’s vine circled the upper part of the four living room walls like a leafy green necklace. A Virgin Mary icon hung above the hallway arch. A priest she had tried to seduce had given it to her after she started showing up too regularly at church events.
    â€œSo j’arrive à Pizza Hut, which is terrible as you know, but I figure I’m relatively anonyme there. So he’s all friendly and everything and I’m feeling mal, because it really is not fun being the dumper. The dumpee has no guilt whereas la dumper can barely walk with the load of feeling bad on her back. T’sais? Anyway, there Finn was, waiting patiently, doing his crossword puzzle. And so I smile and stuff a cigarette in my mouth so I don’t have to keep fake smiling cause it’s exhausting, and he starts in on our summer plans! The guy’s fou totallement fou. I say casual sex, and he says let’s go camping in the peach orchards in Penticton.”
    â€œI think he just likes you an awful lot—”
    â€œBof ! The tablecloth was this ’orrible plastic red-and-white faux Italian gingham. I can’t stand these franchise restaurants. Anyway, the other customers are cheering every two seconds because Gretzky keeps on scoring. Finn drank a Blue or Pilsner or—”
    â€œI don’t need all the details, really.” Isobel liked nothing better than to have a good old gossip about the minute events of her daily life.
    â€œC’mon. Don’t be like that, I’m trying to give you toute l’histoire. All right, here it is: I looked at him firmly, I didn’t blink, and I said three things.” Isobel paused.
    â€œWhat three things?”
    â€œI said: Non. Non. And non. And with each non I pointed my finger at him to punctuate. ’Course he tried to break in:
    â€œâ€˜But—’
    â€œâ€˜Non.’
    â€œâ€˜But—’
    â€œâ€˜Noooo.’ And then finally he got it.”
    â€œSo what did you tell him when he called you this afternoon?”
    â€œI repeated the three nons. Apparently all great political speeches come in threes, three words, three slogans. Long Live Peace. We Will Triumph . . . Tu es fini.”
    She said Finn had called her five times the night before, getting more ridiculous with each call, aiming for casual and landing desperate. It was probably a good thing she had cut him loose after all. She wasn’t ready for anything more than a fling. Whenever we went to a movie or a play or got on a bus or plane, she always went straight for aisle seats, always positioned herself near exit signs. Her dad, whose advice on life consisted of sporting clichés, had told her long ago: the only way around the best offence is a good defence. She dumped first—dating survival of the fittest. “Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen” was practically her mantra.
    â€œYou know Finn is a great guy, and he went way out of his way to get us that Dan Bern interview.”
    â€œSo, what, I’m supposed to commit myself for life to this guy? He wants to be a rock journalist anyway; it was a good experience for him too. I just can’t deal with his needs. He’s too open, too warm, too . . . goddamn eager.”
    â€œOh,” I said, realizing that’s probably what Sullivan had thought of me. Too eager. To keep him. To have him stay. No matter how