The her in question was Jean. My friends called her “her.” Are you bringing her with you? If so I’m not going.” Her was short for Her Royal Majesty. The Queen with a capital Q. High maintenance, proper, legendary scowl, hair tied down like it was ready for a storm. And by the end of the night the storm would hit, and everyone around her would be bowled over like a sloth at a shooting gallery. I was the main target. I loved it.
Jean was reduced to her. It even went as far as using her when it was grammatically incorrect. “When is her coming to the party?” Or, “I heard her went home for the weekend. We should do something.”
Yes, I lived with her on Euclid when we were both 22 years old, the second floor of an old brick house, and one very big landlord. Tony was large. And I’m not sure how this happened but while we lived there Tony got married to the most attractive woman I’ve ever seen, and within six months she was large.
I left her in many places over the next five or so years. I left her on Euclid. I left her in a government subsidized bachelor apartment by St. Clair station. Then eventually she’d call me, blast me into pieces and I’d be mush for her again and we’d repeat the process.
Now her is a teacher in Downsview, married with two kids. She looked me up a few years back, befriended me on Facebook, told me her life to now, then unfriended me and disappeared. This time she left me. I had it coming.
And now I was walking down our street, Euclid, a briefcase full of goodies and an address written in pencil on the top $100 bill.