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Before the injury I would constantly crack my back. The guys on the team were used to me almost bending backwards in half and the ricochet of popping that ran from my neck all the way down to my hips. Dad says it's a sign that my body is aging faster than it's supposed to. He told me to take a break. A week at most.
Take some of that money and go find a beach. Hell, go find a mountain in the middle of Norway and stay there alone in solitude.
I didn't listen.
I can't crack my back now. Not the same way I did before. I can't press my cheek all the way down to the top of my shoulder until my neck pops and I finally get a little relief from the aches. I can't twist my body around, feeling like a damn gymnast as I twist and turn my body every way it can.
I always thought my body was invincible. I don't know why. It never gave me any reason to think so highly of it. It had failed me before. But on the field, in the gym, in every moment where I wasn't alone and by myself, I felt like my body could do anything. That I could run as fast as I could, that I could force my legs to keep going and going.
And then when I went home there was no more practise, there were no more games, there was no more training at the gym. I was alone and at home and suddenly every ache and spasm in my body that I thought was never there finally realized it was quiet enough for them to get louder.
I have to be careful when I crack my back now. Not that I end up needing to as much anymore. But if I pull and twist too much, my shoulders aches something horrid. A constant dull throb that isn't loud enough and isn't quiet enough. It's just there. Always.
I walk into the cafe with a pain in my shoulder. I didn't sleep well, tossing and turning, the comforter getting too hot, then the AC making it too cold. Sweat lining my skin only to dry up just as quickly, clammy and uncomfortable. I woke up with pain shooting through my shoulder, clinging onto my neck and making the tips of my fingers tingle until they were almost numb.
I knocked back more meds. It was on an empty stomach.
The cafe is quiet. It's eight-forty-five in the morning, though. I suppose most of Toronto doesn't want to be up until nine. I usually was never a morning person but it started to become nice to wake up early when the world is still mostly asleep and then shut off from everyone and go to bed when they start getting dressed to go out for the night.
A few people are sat together, murmuring quietly in the corner. A tall man with a hat resting on the table nurses a small espresso cup as a paperback is clutched tightly in one hand. Another is a frazzled looking pair, typing erratically on their laptops, as an opened biochemistry textbook lies facedown on the table between them. They have sandwiches and large iced coffees. The coffee is almost done, the sandwiches are untouched.
I scan the coffee shop, taking in the money trees sitting in their pots on balanced shelves lining the walls, leaves and and vines spiralling down the shelving beneath. Franny isn't here yet. I contemplate whether I should wait for her before getting a coffee or if it will be less awkward to have something to fiddle with as I wait. I glance back at the entrance but no one is approaching.
