Usually I like the festival’s Poetry Night. It’s my favorite. They have poetry and that stuff I’m going to try and make it one post without mentioning. Poetry night has always been like a little slice of heaven for me, until now.

It all started out normal enough, heck, I’d say better than normal; my wife was going to be joining me for this one. Going out isn’t something we get to do very often. We have two small children at home so getting out is a real treat. We were both pretty excited. She wore a blue skirt and I wore a brown slacks. She looked beautiful and I wouldn’t detract.

We arrived at quarter to 8 and slipped past the door people. I use the words “slipped past” due to the fact my wife never paid. That’s right. She actively engaged in the theft of poetry. I tried to stop her, but she’s really pretty and she makes me feel better about myself, so what can you do? Me, I aid and abed.

After committing our requisite crime for the evening, we went to celebrate with a drink at the bar. Thievery makes you thirsty. We filled up on red wine and cubed things, and headed to our seats. The lights dimmed and the show was on.

Some people read some poetry.

Then there was intermission.

We went back to the bar and had more wine. My wife found out where to get the stuff in the baskets that had the green bits in it and we lent Ariel a camera. Pretty normal night. Pretty nice night. Until the second set. As the house lights dimmed I caught my first glimpse of him, David O’Meara; the man who would seduce my wife.

Yup. That’s right. David O’Meara seduced my wife. Right there. Last night. In front of everyone. I swear they all heard her gasp. I did. It was right after the last line in the boat accident poem.

Ya, that’s right, he seduces women with boat accident poems. He’s that good.

Anyway, I tried to comfort myself with little lies. You know like, “She hates poets.” “She hates boats.” “You’re good looking Jay, really, you are.” Nothing worked, I knew she was his.

I was so distraught. I barely understood a word Christian Bok said. And really, looking around, I fear I wasn’t the only one.

As soon as the lights came on I did the only thing a man can do in this situation, I grabbed my wife’s arm and ran. I had to get her away from O’Meara’s wonderful web of words, but she was too far gone. She quickly swung our course towards the McNally Robinson table and snapped up the nearest copy of any book with the name O’Meara printed on the cover.

I lowered my head and paid.

While the book girls giggled, we spent the next 20 minutes waiting for an autograph.

I spent the next 20 minutes hoping there’d be cheese left on the way out.

Damn.

Almost.

* * *
Jason Diaz is a Winnipeg-based writer and stay at home dad. His poetry and prose has been published in dark leisure magazine. Last year he joined the Thin Air collective and has been awaiting the festival’s arrival ever since. He has still only been interviewed by The Uniter once, and is sadly no longer licensed to drive forklift.