The bubble popped two months later, in the Brave Bull House of Steaks. The Bull is a curious place, one that people claim could only exist in Vancouver's Eastside; a refuge for loners and outcasts, for regulars, to feast on a steak dinner with a $8.95 price tag from a different time; a place where you wanted to believe that the "egg lolls" were made by the wizened Chinese proprietor herself, all evidence to the contrary. A bubble of a different kind. On that night, we were the only guests. We had strawberry daiquiris that resembled bubble tea and I amused my boy with rock-paper-scissors. Ann sneaked off to the washroom with her bag. She came back white as a sheet.
"I peed on the stick," she said.
"What does it say?"
She didn't reply, just nodded the confirmation.
"Can I see it?"
"No!" she scolded me. My heart had started beating like the drum on a fairground organ, and I wanted to see it, and say it, say it loud, even if we were in a restaurant, but she just wanted to go. We paid, endured the proprietor's reproaches for the unfinished meal, and left. Outside it was near dark, the parking lot an unlit patch beside the busy road to the dockyards, and the good little car didn't start: the battery was dead.
(from Ring Of Seaweed)