Drowning

Chapter Three - An Interlude

The day after Chuck's party Yanna went to work just as she had every weekday since moving to Vancouver, though this day she was utterly pre-occupied. Now sober and rested, she obsessed over her encounter with Duncan and her subsequent conversation with Denise.

Her cousin was a lot of things, not all of them good, but she was not a liar. She didn't doubt her facts on Duncan... but couldn't reconcile them with the man she'd met. It bothered her how much the man still haunted her. Their conversation had been genial, interesting even, but what still struck close to home was his book collection. Walking into that room had been like walking into her own day dreams. Who else in the world could have put every book that had ever meant anything to her in one room? She knew what those books said about her - if they said about Duncan anything remotely similar, than he couldn't be the man Dee described. That man was well-read and a romantic; believed in honour, camaraderie, courage and ideals. That man dreamed and loved it. Had money, class, education and style.

The man Dee had told her stories about was a bum and a layabout, a drunk and a boor. Hell, any man who took to the bottle like that was a coward. And his utter repugnance for people - was that the attitude of a romantic? It made no sense. It just made no sense.

What bothered her most, though, was Dee's accusation that Yanna just wanted to save him. That made her ears ring. Was it true? Did it matter? Yanna was well versed in the standard wisdom with regard to saving troubled men - it just wasn't done. It was a rock-barrier up against which many good women were smashed and battered. Women who martyr themselves for men who aren't worth it were a dime-a-dozen.

But did that mean that a fallen man was unsaveable? That those who were struggling to live their lives deserved no support, no life-line? Was it selfish to think of yourself when good people were drowning in their own seas of pain? Was it just good sense?

Yanna walked over to the window of her apartment that night and looked out over the street, a tree-lined residential neighbourhood with lots of couples strolling hand-in-hand in the cool autumn evening. The sight made her a little ill. She was a strong woman, stronger than most women will ever be. Why the hell was everyone so concerned about her?