Caleb and I walked in silence through the grounds of the Forks, past the CN Stage and the big Winnipeg sign with a backdrop of the reflective Human Rights Museum that he stopped to photograph. We passed the theatre for young people and parkades to reach the main market area with the multi-storey Johnson Terminal and the brick warehouse that now housed the Forks Market.
Between both lay a round concrete pad flanked by eight teal posts leading to red spiderweb beams supporting a tarp over the seating area that would turn into a rink in the wintertime. To our right, about five storeys up, was a teal glass observation tower that looked over the Red and Assiniboine rivers.
People sat on lounge chairs facing the water and got beers and wine from an outdoor vendor that must have opened since my departure. Leaves rustled on the trees on the steps of the bowl-like stairs and seating areas leading to the river.
By the cement river walk and a red and white checkered building, people boarded one of the river tour boats. Caleb would like that. He followed my gaze.
"Interested in a professionally guided tour on the river?" I asked. "Unlike what you've been stuck with the past few hours."
"You guide for a living too, and you're the best."
His smile put one on my lips.
"I am without a boat today, but we can join a tour. I've never been."
"Then let's give your guiding brain a break and hit the water. You probably have withdrawal symptoms being part fish and all, right?" He nudged my shoulder with his, leaving pleasant warmth on my skin.
We trotted down the stairs, past the artificial sand on some levels, the people enjoying food and drinks on others, and the grassy seating areas. At the tour shack, Caleb paid for us before I could try.
The boat time they wrote on our receipt was twenty minutes away, so we walked along the path under a rail bridge, which gave him more angles from which to photograph the river.
When we returned, we joined a family with a boy around four with loose dark curls getting fitted for a lifejacket. He clung to his dad's hand and called out, "Hello!"
I smiled and waved while Caleb greeted him, "G'day."
The boy's eyes lit up. "You sound like Bluey!"
"Is that right?" Caleb raised an eyebrow while gazing at me.
The dad chuckled. "You must not have kids. It's an Australian children's show with a blue dog."
That sounded familiar.
"Do you talk like Bluey too?" The boy's brown eyes bore into mine.
"No, I talk like you."
His lip curled into a frown. "Aww."
A laugh spilled out of my mouth.
"Sorry mate, you're stuck with me." Caleb grinned at the boy who giggled in response and echoed the word 'mate', trying to imitate him.
"What's your favourite Bluey moment?" Caleb asked.
"When Dad has a backpack on his tummy and Bingo steals his food."
"Oh, like this?" Caleb turned his bag to put on his front and jutted out his stomach. "Oh, no! Where's my food?"
"Not like that, silly. Bingo's in the bag. And you eat the food."
"It's a good thing I have my best imaginary food here with me. Look at this beautiful..." Caleb paused and glanced at the boy.
"Apple!" the boy yelled.
YOU ARE READING
Flight Risk
RomanceWhen returning to Canada for a friend's wedding, a dive instructor must face her judgmental mother and her ex, whose heart she never wanted to break, so she agrees to a fake relationship with an environmental scientist as she tries to minimize the s...
