"You Can't Stay a Saint in This City"

“Do you know what I’ve just realized Mike?” I say as I meet him after the game.

“What?”

“With Dolce, Coco, and Arnold we could start a very successful labradoodle farm.” I tell him trying to keep his mind off of the Kings’ loss against the Red Wings, although that might be a little hard considering yours truly is wearing her Datsyuk jersey who happened to be the last player to score.

“I thought you were great,” I offer, after all Mike did get the first goal of the game. “Plus not many people can pull off pink pinstripes.” The pattern on his dress shirt actually reminds me of these curtains I had when I was eight.

“Take me home, Ambrosia?” Mike asks as we get into my Bentley.

“Where else would I take you Mike?” I reply as I pull onto the busy LA streets.

“Where’s your alcohol?” Mike asks as he looks in my fridge.

“I don’t drink.” I tell Mike as I stare at the clock. Since I’ve been cutting back on the exercising I’ve got a lot more energy and nothing to do with it, I think this is why people have sex.

“Really? Why? Alcohol is awesome”

“Because nothing good ever comes out of drinking.” Yelling at a random stranger who was on a date was not really a high point in my life.

“I bet you’re a lightweight.” Mike says as if it’s a challenge.

“Well yeah, considering how short I am alcohol would definitely be more concentrated in my blood stream”

“Well do you want me to grab you a beer?”

“No,” I reply as I grab my remote off my table.

“Well okay, goodnight Amber,” Mike says as he leaves through my screen door leading to my backyard.

“Goodnight Mike.”
_____

“Hmmm who to vote for?” I say to myself as I stare at the screen of my iMac.

“How about your neighbour and your boyfriend?” Ivy says as she walks into the room carrying photo copies of something.

“Right.” I say clicking on both of them and adding their pictures to the little boxes next to Datsyuk, not that he needs me to be voting for them. “Two defensemen and a goaltender”

“Shea Weber, Erik Karlsson, and Pekka Rinne.” I say as I click the remaining players and hit summit. Done, I think to myself and close the window to get back to designing fabric patterns.
_____

“When are you going to shave off your moustache?” I ask Milan, I used to love November after all it was my birth month but I’m not really a fan of moustaches.

“When Movember is over… have you donated yet?”

“No…where am I even supposed to donate?” And if it weren’t for my bimonthly waxings I could probably also grow a moustache, but no one wants to see that.

“I’m sure you can look it up.”

“Okay…” I say as I look around living room, wondering if there’s anything that needs to be fixed. “Do you ever wonder if what would’ve happened if we never left Vancouver?”

“No… not really. I mean it’s great there but we both have our dream jobs and have moved to bigger cities”

“Even if we had to struggle to make ends meet, don’t you think things would’ve turned out simpler?”

“It is what it is.” Milan says with a smile.

“I guess Milan,” I reply.

“I can’t wait to see you. Here. In person.”

I sigh “Me too,”
_____

“So as revenge for running over Ryan Miller, Milan gets to punch Paul Gaustad in the face for like a minute straight?” I never really did understand the rules of hockey. The only thing I really knew was that wives and children were supposed to stay out of the trash talking. Givenchy doesn’t really give me an answer; she just stares at me with those large beady eyes.

“Well I’m just glad I’m not I guy,” I don’t have to deal with getting beat to a pulp; I just have to deal with bitchy back stabbers. I mean the later could be worse depending on how often you piss people off.

“Okay so what do you want me to do?” Mike asks as he wanders into my house, straight from practice.

“Are you a fighter?” I ask Mike as I close the NHL Center Ice App on my iPad.

“I’m a lover not a fighter, you?”

“I don’t think I’d be much of a fighter.” I reply as I grab the large dog basket from the corner of my living room. “Okay, so they need to be walked three times a day,” I say pointing to the three differently colored leashes in the basket “and fed twice a day, at 8 in the morning and 5 in the evening.” I say gesturing to the dog food and little measuring cup. “And…”

“Relax, Ambrosia. I’ve managed to keep Arnold alive for five years. I think I can manage your little ankle biters.”

“Okay, fine.” I say grabbing my iPad and stuffing it into my new mint green Birkin, when you get paid to work and paid to have your work filmed you can accumulate quite a bit of extra income.

Mike grabs my Louis Vuitton suitcase and puts it in the back of his Range Rover. “Excited for Boston Ambrosia?”

“Not really,” I reply, feeling the weight of the Stanley Cup ring in the pocket of my dusty pink blazer.